First Day on the Job
by whack sparrow
Summary: Now complete! Dean/Bela. Set at the end of Season 9. Dean is a demon. In hell, he is sent down to meet someone from his past and after some bickering, much confusion and the spilling of a great deal of secrets, he decides that he wants to get her out. What's more, she could be instrumental in restoring his humanity. T for graphic scene/implied torture.
1. Scar Tissue

**Hello, this is my first supernatural fic. I mean this to be a one-shot but I do want to write more so if anyone wants to ask me to write more I would be totally okay with that... hint hint!**

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She was sprawled doll-like, quite raggedly, on a rusted rack. Her legs hung limply off the edge. The floor and the walls were stained a telltale brown-red, rivulets of the stuff dripping from the numerous wounds over her body. The mechanical smell of blood hung heavy in the room.

Dean frowned as he peered through into the crude room. She looked familiar, and yet how could she still be here? He was sure she would have broken long, long ago.

He felt a sudden burst of rage. She hadn't broken? She must have been in here for what, coming on 500 years? And he, the ever-stoic hunter who was supposedly the vessel for a freakin' archangel, who had been deemed important enough to be dragged out of hell by Cas? He had broken in a mere thirty years. It was pathetic, really.

All of a sudden he found he couldn't bear it. With a growl, he tore open the door and stormed inside.

In an instant, she was alert. "Oh, do leave me alone," she purred into the solid metal beneath her, her body language so relaxed that she may as well have been lying on memory foam. "I still haven't healed yet."

He couldn't find it in himself to make a snide reply as it became apparent to him that she really had been here for all this time. Bela had officially been through far more pain than he ever had. It put her on a pedestal above him, like a martyr, he felt, and he wanted nothing more than to drag her off it.

"We both know the rules," she added with a sigh as she sensed the continued presence. "My nerve endings are still frayed. I'm afraid I won't feel a thing right now, but you're welcome to come back later." Yeah, this was most definitely Bela Talbot tied down in front of him. Now he understood why Crowley had sent him down here.

"I think I'll stay," he finally voiced and allowed himself a humourless smile at the sharp intake of breath she gave - the first indication that she'd realised something was amiss. Apparently she'd recognised his voice immediately.

And yet, she still didn't react. "We did psychological torture yesterday," she mumbled. "Come on, _please_ be a little more creative."

He sat down on a nearby chair, all-too-aware that he was probably something like the fiftieth demon to take that very seat. "Well, flattered as I am that they use me to get you all riled up," he said, "things are a little different this time." Yeah, very different.

She stiffened. This time he took no pleasure from the sight. "It's really you, isn't it," she observed.

"Afraid so."

That's when she propped herself up on her arms and turned around slightly, resting her head on her arm to regard him. She didn't seem surprised to see him, or maybe she just hid it well. She was naked, he noticed, but so utterly caked in grime and blood and god knows what else that her skin, tinged blue from the cold, was more obscured than not. It bothered him a little to see her so undignified, because when his mind drifted to her memory, she was all sass and silk and a handgun. Not _this_.

"Heard you got out." He gave a tired smile - she had no idea. "Also heard I was the first seal."

He flinched, unable to stop himself. Looked her in the eyes for the first time. There was a defiant sympathy there and he felt another wave of anger wash through him. Something along the lines of, how _dare_ she feel sorry for him, after everything that had happened between them? He controlled himself, trying to hide his weakness. He was supposed to be stronger than this, if the freakin' Mark of Cain meant anything. "Yeah, sorry about that."

One of her eyebrows arched. "I'm sorry too." He knew she knew what she was doing. He was certain she knew exactly how he was feeling right now. Now that he'd disturbed her little corner of hell, she was going to make him feel as much guilt and self-pity as possible.

"You're not," he shot back.

"You're right," she said blithely. "I'm not really capable of emotion, am I?" And she was teasing him.

Well, he could tease right back. That was his specialty. "Nope. Heartless bitch through and through." He'd never believed it, never truly, because he knew it wasn't true, he'd always known there was something, but it had been so much easier to _pretend_ to believe it. This they both knew.

They were both grinning now. That was probably a first. Nobody smiled in hell... unless they were being sarcastic or sadistic.

"I don't suppose you came down here to rescue me," she teased at length. "And I'll admit I am curious."

It was obvious what she was asking. He looked away. "I died," he shrugged. Then he felt the familiar urge to lie, an as usual, gave in to it. "Guess I did some pretty heartless things and ended up back here." Tried to look nonchalant. Of course, she saw right through it. Not because he was a bad liar, because they were both excellent liars, but because she knew there was nothing Dean would let himself do that would get him sent back to hell again. She decided not to press the matter.

"I'm sorry." There it was again, he thought bitterly. The sympathy that he was convinced she was incapable of. Surely even normally people didn't say _I'm sorry _this much. What was she, a therapist?

"I got a question too," he began. Felt a little ashamed to ask, but then realized he was a demon; feeling regret in asking someone an insensitive question should really be the _least_ of his issues.

Bela watched his discomfort with interest. She liked seeing him conflicted in how he thought he was supposed to feel about her. "Well go on. I don't have all day."

"Freakin'..." He scratched his head awkwardly. Suddenly he wasn't a demon with the mark of Cain burnt into his forearm and the first blade pressing against his torso through his shirt, he was just Dean asking a woman an inappropriate question to satisfy his curiosity. "Five hundred years, right?"

"More or less." She knew immediately what he was referring to.

"How did ... why are you not, you know." He looked at her eyes pointedly. "A demon by now?"

Meaning, how did she manage? And deeper, if one could read between the lines... why was she so much stronger than him?

She gave him her catlike smile, but he could see it crease at the edges, the first sign that suggested the toll that five-hundred years in hell had taken on her. "You want the truth or a cryptic, sarcastic answer?"

Well, obviously he wanted the _truth_, but that wasn't what he was going to get!

"I just didn't feel like breaking. I'm stubborn, aren't I?"

He grimaced. "That you are."

So they were both hiding things now. Big deal.

"Alastair's dead," he blurted out.

"Good."

"Sam killed him," Dean continued. It just felt good to talk. "You shoulda seen it. I was assigned as Alastair's torturer by a bunch of angels." It sounded crazy aloud.

"That's poetic," she commented. "Did you enjoy it?" Trust Bela to ask the important questions!

"Yes," he said automatically. "You know what that son of a bitch did to me and made me do."

Oh, all too well. She traced a hand absently over a scar on her belly that had yet to disappear, because it was a mark of the first seal of the apocalypse and never would heal. "I know."

He pretended not to notice. "It felt damn good, Bela."

She stayed silent, her way of imploring him to tell her more.

"There were a lot of different blades, there was salt and there was holy water," he said at length. "I picked the sharpest, not the biggest, just like he taught me. He laughed in my face." "But... man... when I dipped the blade in both? I thought he'd never stop screaming."

"You're a genius," she said dryly.

"Tell me about it." He paused. "It was like ... why was I ever afraid of him in the first place? Let me tell you, Bela, he was just like you and me. He could feel pain and he sure as hell didn't like it."

"What a surprise."

"Then he told me you were the first seal. Called you a 'weeping bitch'. I don't really remember anything after that. I must've lost it."

She held her silence.

"Sam tells me he managed to break free of the devil's trap somehow. Then he beat me senseless. Cas came to save me, and he beat the shit out of him too. In the end it was Sam who wasted him, with his freaky demon blood powers."

"Cas?"

"Angel who dragged me out. He's a character." Dean laughed. "You'd like him... but probably end up treating him like your cat."

Bela chewed her lip. Her cat was long dead, maybe even still lying where she'd shot it in the woods to spare it the hellhounds.

"So Sam literally is the antichrist?"

"Pretty much." He pulled a face. "He drank demon blood, like a lot of it, all to take out Lilith." At the mention of the female demon, Bela's face withdrew sharply before she could stop herself. She harboured an especially bitter hatred for Lilith, ever since the night after the deal had been made. Old habits die hard.

"Sorry," Dean said quickly. "She's dead too, by the way."

"Good." Quieter this time.

"She was the last seal, actually. Killing her brought about the rising of Lucifer."

Bela shot him a wry look. "Things really got screwed up while I was gone, huh?"

"You don't know the half of it." He shook his head. There was so much he suddenly wanted to tell her. So much he wanted to tell _anyone_, he reminded himself sharply. Still, that didn't help to quell the sudden urge he felt to drag her bodily off the rack and up, out of hell, slaughtering every demon in his way, damn the consequences. Her hair was filthy and matted with blood, but he felt no shame in admitting that she was as beautiful as she'd been in life.

They stayed there in silence for a few minutes, savouring each others company.

When he noticed she was shivering, he considered offering her his jacket. He just didn't feel right sitting opposite her, fully clothed and normal (ignoring the demonic influence for a minute), while she continued to suffer. Such a freakin' cliché, though...

The thought made him smirk, so he took it off and presented it to her.

There was a moment as neither of them moved, then she darted out a hand and snatched up the jacket. Draped it around her shoulders, wincing as it chafed the welts on her back, but relaxing a little into the physical and mental comfort it began to provide her. Comfort wasn't exactly a commodity in hell.

A rapping on the door behind him brought Dean back to the present. "Doc's here!"

Bela pushed hair out of her eyes and gave a quiet groan like she was being woken up early (which, to be fair, she technically had been). She raised her voice a little. "C'mon, Annie, it's a fortnightly treatment, not daily..."

Annie, who turned out to be an old man in a hospital uniform, opened the door and wheeled in a trolley laden with all sorts of instruments and bottles. "Sorry," he grinned in a manner that made it clear he wasn't sorry in the least. "Not my orders."

He seemed to notice Dean for the first time. "And who's this? A visitor?"

Dean longed to wipe that asshole smirk off his face. "Something like that," he said cockily. One of the perks of having the mark of Cain? Definitely being able to look a demon confidently in the face without a hint of fear.

Annie laughed. "Kidding, silly. I know who you are."

"You do?"

The 'doctor' gave a mock salute. "All hail Crowley, blah blah blah. Apparently, I'm getting a tea break. Job's on you, boy."

And after parking the cart beside the metal 'bed', he strolled out the door whistling merrily. Dean gritted his teeth as he usually did when he didn't understand what was going on, forcing himself to ignore Bela's questioning stare.

Dean leaned over and slammed the door. "Who was that?"

Bela sat up and swung her legs over the side of the rack. "Medic," she shrugged.

He eyed her dubiously. "Medic," he repeated.

She reached gingerly with a practiced air for a beaker brimming with thick black liquid from the cart and held it in the air up to her face. It was more cream than liquid, Dean noticed. "Don't tell me you forgot."

Dean shifted awkwardly. "I may have repressed some of my memories."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, _as you should know_, the healing process is important in Hell. This is liniment." A shrug. She reached for a large, flat-bladed knife from the cart and handed it to Dean with the handle facing him.

He looked at her dumbly. "What?"

"Annie said you're taking over today."

His eyes widened. "_What?_ But you said you're still healing..." he finished lamely. _Besides_, he wanted to add, _Alastair's dead and you're crazy if you think I'm going to do this again..._

She scooted over on the rack and grabbed his hand, wrapping it around the handle. "No, not that, you moron. Bit eager to be back at the chopping board, eh?" Her voice was cold.

And that was classic Bela, an absolute artist with cutting remarks. There was no way for him to respond to that without opening up old wounds, so he had no choice but to keep silent.

"You just have to spread the salve on my wounds. Think of it like a butter knife," she finished sweetly.

He stared down at the knife. "I think I'll pass."

"Like hell you will," she replied smoothly. "Don't tell me you hate me so much you want to leave me to suffer."

He narrowed his eyes. "This is not about that. Besides, you know this just restarts the whole cycle again. It's not exactly a happy healing spell."

"I don't care. Do you want to get in trouble with Crowley?"

"I'd love to," he answered without skipping a beat. Nevertheless, he wilted under her glare.

Blindly, he dipped the knife in the beaker. Used it like a scoop to gather as much liniment as he could on it (might as well get this over with, right?). Dutifully, Bela stripped of the jacket and lay down on her front on the rack, head hung over the edge like she was awaiting a massage.

Dean cursed as a chunk of the salve fell to the floor in a sloppy mess. "You'd think a spoon would be better suited," he muttered under his breath.

"No spoons in hell," came Bela's muffled reply. "Only knives."

He hesitated as he brought the knife close to one of the wounds on her back. The skin felt rough around his fingers. He tried to ignore how she shivered under his touch and how familiar this felt to that day all those years ago when he'd been in the same position with Alastair's watchful eye behind him. Swallowed a lump in his throat and closed his eyes momentarily to dispel the memory.

He steeled himself and touched knife to skin. He definitely wasn't prepared for the poorly hidden scream that slipped involuntarily out of Bela's mouth as it happened.

He snatched the knife away from her back with a gasp of his own, yet still she let out something between a whimper and a moan that pained him to hear from her mouth. So much for opening up old wounds.

"What the..."

She took several breaths to calm herself down, and when her breathing had slowed, she spoke. "It's fine, Dean. The liniment hurts. It's another one of the ironic punishments down here. They added that after you left. Crowley's idea."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. He eyed the salve in the beaker with disgust. This was Crowley's idea of 'welcome to demonhood'? "Son of a _bitch_."

"Relax," Bela said smoothly, as if she was the one administering the liniment. "And hurry up," she added with a shiver.

Dean imagined Crowley watching on them right now, sipping something expensive and alcoholic. Crowley was a sucker for drama. The bastard would love this. Gritting his teeth, Dean worked fast, slathering gently. To her credit, Bela got used to the pain fast. A few minutes in, she was silent apart from the odd gasp whenever the liniment was applied somewhere anew. It became eerily similar to a massage as Bela found herself beginning to relax. It didn't hurt nearly as much when Dean did it.

She caught herself wishing this wouldn't end, and berated herself. This was hell. Anything good would end as soon as it possibly could. But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy this respite while it lasted. Even if it would be her undoing, because the next time she would be tortured, it was going to hurt so much more.

Dean felt he should be hating every moment of this. It should have been insanely awkward, but it wasn't. Suddenly all the issues between himself and Bela seemed to melt away as his fingers trailed over her skin. He could pretend he'd never sliced that blade into said skin, never broken after thirty years and never started the apocalypse. This didn't feel so much like hell at all...

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**Please review! And fave if you liked it.**


	2. One Hot Minute

**Well you guys seemed to like the first chapter so i thought might as well continue. I love writing Dean/Bela interaction. This wont be a really long fic but I would love to write a longer fic separately after this is done. Thanks for the support. Review + fav! :)**

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Crowley came down to see them himself a couple of hours later. Invited himself in, and everything.

"You're a hard worker," he commented as he stepped into the room. "I expected you to complain, or throw a hissy fit."

Dean snatched his hand from where it had been stroking a particularly vicious-looking welt on Bela's lower back, where her spine arched inwards, thinking how much like sandpaper it felt. He straightened and sat back in his chair. "Crowley," he muttered, forcing the words out. "Good to see you."

"You too, dear," Crowley remarked. "I just thought I'd interrupt - we need to have a little chat." He motioned outside. "In private."

"I'll say," Dean snorted as he stood up and took his jacket off the rack, slipping it on. Some of Bela's blood had seeped into it. _Great_, he thought as he felt the dampness against his chest.

Bela heard none of this, because she was asleep for the first time in a good few years without having passed out from pain. As a result, her brow was not creased tightly and her mouth was not stretched in a grimace. It's the little things.

Crowley ushered Dean out into the corridor and shut the chamber entrance. "Walk with me."

Dean resisted the urge to say something sarcastic and ... well, just plain _mean_, and followed the king of hell. It wasn't exactly a promenade, but Dean never liked walks much anyway. He was more of a road trip kinda guy.

"I know it isn't the Champs-Élysées," Crowley remarked as they passed a pit of vicious-looking spikes underneath an archway that didn't look like it belonged at _all_, "but you've got to admit. My renovations give the place a bit of a shine."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Chomp-what?"

The demon rolled his eyes. "Aren't you the cultured one."

Dean didn't dignify that with a response.

"I like to think Hell has flourished under my watchful eye," Crowley continued with a faint smile. "Abaddon, she was all ... blood, guts and organs over here, prison cells over there, etcetera... she missed the grandeur that I've achieved." He indicated a smouldering building to prove his point. "The burn house, for example. I don't suppose you remember what it was like before?"

"Nope," Dean replied noncommittally. He didn't, and didn't really want to.

"Crude," came the answer. "At least now it looks half decent. Architecture gives this place a real quality." He took one last look at the burning building, seeming to relish the screams that could be heard from inside, then turned to Dean. "Pardon all the small talk, though. We have matters to discuss."

"Yeah?" Dean allowed his eyes to flash to the black that their true colour was now. "Tell me about it."

"You turning into a demon," Crowley began smoothly, all businesslike, "was not on my agenda, believe it or not."

"Yeah, well I don't believe it. This has gotta be some kind of joke to you, me turning into one of the things I hate the most."

"While the irony is amusing ... this state of affairs serves me no advantage," Crowley maintained. "I was Johnny Crossroads before I ascended to king of hell, so I'm still all about simple strategy. I didn't get you the mark of Cain for your benefit, I instigated it because I needed Abaddon dead. She was a threat," he said mildly.

"You break my heart when you put it like that," Dean said drily.

"With you as a demon, don't you think I might be a little vulnerable?" Crowley said it simply, because it _was_ simple and to be honest, he couldn't stand waiting for Dean to figure it out himself - that would take ages. "You have the First Blade, after all, and the mark - if you wanted, Winchester, you could take me out and rule Hell all by your lonesome." He smiled knowingly. "In fact, I'd be practically bending over backwards."

Dean watched him suspiciously. "Even if I did want to take over this steaming pile of crap," he put eloquently, "why would you even tell me this? I'm already gone, aren't I? My eyes are black."

"Ah," Crowley said smugly. "That's where it gets juicy and complicated."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you are a special snowflake. You're a unique case."

Dean balked and glared. "While that makes me feel all tingly inside... what? Quit stalling and spit it out."

"Isn't it obvious? How do you feel, Dean?" Crowley gave him his best 'soul-searching' look. "Feeling particularly demonic? Any urges to torture lately?"

Dean pondered this. "Not really."

"You also happen to retain compassion," the king of hell continued. "And even tenderness, as I astutely observed with all the sweet stroking. That, I have to admit, is something I doubt you even showed when you were human." He grinned. "Must be something special about the gal."

Dean gritted his teeth. "It's rude to spy on people... and anyone would take care to be tender if they'd done the things I've done."

"You're in my house," Crowley shrugged. "Anyway, my point is, you still have your humanity. So no need to pull a moose and sob with despair; there may be hope for you yet."

Dean found that hard to believe. "And I suppose you're going to help prevent me becoming a demon? Out of the goodness of your heart?"

It was Crowley's turn to snort. "Of course not, don't be ridiculous. You being a demon isn't on my wishlist, remember?" He eyed Dean with disdain. "You really ought to get a specialist to examine your short-term memory skills."

"Screw you."

"I'll pass." The demon gestured to the doorway in front of him - somehow, they had ended up back at Bela's torture chamber. "Well, what do you know? We're back, and just in time."

"Was that a circular walk?" Dean scratched his head.

"I like to think so. It certainly wasn't a very long one. Anyway, I'm going to scram before you decide to ask me why Bela Talbot's torture dungeon is your new home." He shot Dean a smarmy wink that reminded him worryingly of Gabriel. "Try and be a good guest." And he vanished.

"Son of a bitch!"

* * *

It hit Bela like a ton of bricks. One minute she was at (relative) peace, in that blissful absence of pain during which her skin knotted itself together and healed with the salve's help, the strange tingling sensation enveloping her being. The next, she shot up, breathing hard as the pieces of the puzzle slotted themselves into place.

Dean turning up was the first tip-off. Why was he even down here if there wasn't something seriously wrong? Humans didn't just wonder around hell, Winchester or not. And why visit her, of all people? It was no sick coincidence.

Now she understood why he had avoided eye contact and, furthermore, what he was doing in Hell in the first place - Dean Winchester was a demon.

And he had probably come to be her new torturer. She bit her lip. He was in with Crowley, too, must be, considering Annie's behavior, so he was a high-ranking demon too. This certainly wasn't what she expected. Not after five hundred years. Apparently getting her to break was important?

_God_, and she'd let him clean her wounds, not that she'd had a choice, but he must have laughed his ass off.

He'd seemed so genuine, though. So very Dean. This was either the most elaborate attempt to get her to start laying into other souls, or it was something else, something so bizarre that it would do her head in to even imagine what was going on.

He wasn't here right now. Presumably he had left when she fell asleep.

What did it matter though? She was in Hell. If he was indeed a demon, she didn't exactly have the means to fight back or escape, or negotiate, the latter being her usual method of getting out of sticky situations. Here, she was at his mercy. For the thousandth time, she regretted everything she had ever done in her life because it had led her right to this moment.

She was used to the routine by now, and that in a way was what made it bearable. Even constant agony bores the mind after a while, and if you're stuck down long enough, they run out of fresh ideas and it becomes monotonous. But with Dean? She wasn't even sure if he needed instruments to torture her. Her whirlwind of emotions right now was a testament itself to how helpless she would be if he did get to work on her. That man was one of the few (few as in, countable on fingers) people in her life that she met more than once without a business transaction in mind since that fateful day when she was fourteen years old. She recalled the rabbit's foot and the ghost ship, and how he'd genuinely helped her despite how much she'd screwed him over. His voice had spoken the last human words she'd ever heard - damning as they were.

The torture had probably already began. The confiding earlier had probably been an act. He'd likely wake her up later by binding her in rough chains and whipping her until he could feel blood beneath his feet, all the while talking in that low, comforting voice of his to remind her who it was that was hurting her.

Well, she knew now. Now she would be prepared. If Dean wanted to break her, she wasn't going to go easy.

"Son of a bitch!"

Her train of thought was interrupted by that very man entering her chamber. Her paranoid thoughts faded away for a second as she saw him walk in looking irritated, confused and - well, _Dean-like_, and she almost laughed despite herself. Before he could lull her into a false sense of security, she exhaled heavily. "Christo," she whispered at the end of the breath. A chill ran down her spine as she saw Dean flinch as if he'd been bitten by a bug. _His eyes_, she reminded herself, and sure enough, the green pools were now a solid black. So it was true.

Dean, observant fellow that he was, didn't notice a thing and sat down like he owned the damn place. Which he probably did if he was royalty to Crowley.

When he noticed her staring daggers at him, he raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

She noticed he was still avoiding eye contact. Well, she would play along too. They settled into a silence so full of tension you could have cut it with a knife, and there were plenty of knives available in hell. All that could be heard was ..."Breathe louder, Dean, really," she snapped.

He blinked. "Sorry. Jeez." Ran his green eyes which she knew were actually black over the room, looked at everything but her. How gentlemanly of the demon to respect her privacy all of a sudden!

Dean was still shifting edgily, wondering for the umpteenth time in his life what he'd done this time to make a woman upset. God, he looked so boyish. So easy for her to forget what he was.

"I guess I pissed you off, huh?" He spoke at last, twiddling his thumbs like a goddamn idiot.

She merely gave an affirmative grunt in reply. Surely Dean wasn't this smart. When Dean acted stupid, he usually wasn't acting.

"O-kay," he conceded sheepishly. A minute later, the cogs fit together in his mind - about time, too! She could almost see the light bulb flash above his head. "Oh," he muttered. "You know."

She nodded curtly, just glad the game seemed to be up by now. Any minute now, he was going to drop the act and the pain would begin. Any minute now and his face would curl into a mocking smile, which was fine because she'd seen it coming.

Dean shrugged. He'd known the truth would come out sometime. He wasn't sure how to explain it though, so he didn't bother trying to elaborate. He'd wait for her to cool off, then think of something.

Bela's emotionless shell was open and she was poised to retreat into it. Any minute now...

Dean cleared his throat in a manner he probably thought was subtle.

Any minute...

Any-

"Oh, for GOD's sake, Dean, just hurry up!" She spluttered out loud, unable to stand the waiting any longer. She almost wanted to offer him the torture instruments so she could just get it over with and start dealing with it. The waiting was worse.

He seemed surprised by the outburst - as if he hadn't noticed the mounting tension - pfft! "Huh?"

"_Huh?_" She mocked. "Dean, darling, if this is your master plan to break me it's not working very well. I suggest you get started with the fancy stuff because really, I'm just not in the mood for foreplay. Frankly it's a waste of your own time. You may as well skip Act I, because it's not all that effective." She made to get up without missing a beat. "In fact, why don't I help you out? I'll fetch the cat o' nine tails, I'm sure it's locked up in the back somewhere." She stumbled to her feet unsteadily, but proudly, because she was stepping right into the position of power. 1-0 to Bela Talbot!

Dean watched her uneasily, looking very confused, and she was suddenly doubtful he'd heard anything besides 'foreplay' and 'cat o' nine tails'. "

"Where-"

"No, Dean," she growled, cutting him off sharply. "No. Drop the act. Drop the bloody act and just get it over with." She was beginning to get seriously angry. This was the problem with demons - you could never be quite sure whether they were telling the truth or playing you like that £200,000 antique German violin (she'd sold it for double).

And she'd always considered _herself_ a master of deception, so it was insulting, really.

"Drop the what?"

She glimpsed an imaginary glint in his eye, one that she thought said '_I know you know, but who's going to let on first?_' and made her grind her teeth.

"Christo," she snarled, trying to get him riled up, feeling a degree of satisfaction as his eyes bled into their deep black and he flinched involuntarily. "Christo, christo, christo." She knew invoking a name of God in hell was bound to attract unwanted attention, but by now, she didn't care.

He glared at her. With black eyes, it was eerily different to Dean's usual glower. "Hey, stop that. I know I look like a demon, but damn, woman, it's not what you think!"

For one hot minute, they stayed like that, smouldering furiously at each other. It occurred to them both at the same time that this was always how they seemed to end up (except usually they had guns). Perhaps that was what broke the tension?

Abruptly, Bela made her way back over to the rack. Fury gave way a little to sarcasm. "Oh, tell me all about it, yeah? You just happen to have black eyes, mmhm, and you're came here to pay a visit to little old me out of the goodness of your heart?" Her body language was goading. Subconsciously, she knew she was trying to egg him into losing his cool and break the façade which she was now not quite as sure that he was holding up.

He threw up his hands defensively. "Oh, forgive _me_ for not having a clue what's going down."

"Not much has changed then, yeah?"

And he looked so _injured_ all of a sudden that she had to bite her lip to suppress a smile.

He sensed the mood shift into banter territory and his lip twitched. "Yeah, cause you're so omniscient. For all your thieving abilities, you seemed pretty bad at holding onto that rabbit's foot all those years ago."

"I was distracted by your bumbling antics on the security camera, and was amused by your pathetic attempts to save your brother."

"Really, though, Bela," he said earnestly after a scathing look, steering the argument back into seriousness. "I know what you're probably thinking, and it isn't true."

"Oh really?" she shot back contemptuously. "Because then you'd know why I don't believe you."

Dean paused. "Well, ya got me there."

Bela sat back down and heaved a sigh. The metal rack had gone cold against her bare skin.

"You might as well humor me," he decided at length. "Let me explain?"

Her walls were down now. She threw him a look and shrugged as if she didn't care. "Don't suppose it matters."

"Right." He moved and she jumped, despite herself, but he was only reaching for his own sleeve. He rolled up the jacket and t-shirt underneath, revealing a peculiar tattoo on his arm - well, she assumed it was a tattoo; it looked more like a brand. He gave her a cheeky grin. "Cliff notes version or long-winded tale?"

She swung her legs onto the rack and hugged her knees. Her calves were pockmarked with little scars and deeper gashes. "Don't care."

"Well," he began. "Me and Sam messed up and accidentally let out a knight of hell from the past, and Crowley threw a hissy fit and begged us to stop her."

"Abaddon?" Bela asked.

"Yep." He popped the 'p'. "I'm guessing they keep you updated?"

"I read the paper." She smirked.

"Only one thing that can kill a Knight of Hell and it's called the First Blade. It belonged to this demon called Cain -"

"Cain, as in, Cain and Abel?"

He nodded. "So, we went to his place and long story short, I had to gank a bunch of demons and he gave me this." Here, he ran a finger along the lines of the brand on his arm pointedly. "It's called the mark of Cain."

Bela raised her eyebrows. "Sounds like a _terrible_ idea."

"You're telling me?" He shook his head. "This thing is crazy. I got this urge to kill stuff and I didn't want to let go of the Blade. But whatever, right? I dealt with it."

"Yeah, _then_ I got ganked by some punk-ass angel scribe - Megatron, or something - he's a real dick. I woke up with black eyes." He shrugged. "Crowley tells me I'm not fully turned yet."

She studied him. "You and Crowley are real buddy-buddy now, aren't you?"

"He's not so bad," Dean admitted. "Compared to the others, anyway. I'd gank the sucker but he keeps the other demons in line."

"Well," she contemplated. "It's a nice story."

"Story?"

"Yeah. But Dean, I'm afraid I can't give you the satisfaction. I'm not a nut easily cracked."

He sighed and kneaded his brow. "What do I have to do to get you to believe me? Bela, I got no idea why I'm down here. I swear, all I wanna do is get back to my human self and knock back a couple of shower beers." He smiled wistfully, then pulled a face. "Or not even that? I'm dead. Maybe I'm just done with it all now. There ain't nothing much left up there anymore."

"Pretty much everyone's dead. All I got to live for is Sammy, and hell, I should have let him start doing his own thing years ago. The angels fell from heaven. All I wanted to do was shut the gates of hell and rest in peace and I'm tired of fighting. Now I've got this demon stuff to worry about?" He shook his head. "I can't catch a break."

She raised her eyebrow at his sullen demeanor. "Well, someone's wallowing in self-pity."

"Great, I feel much better."

"Well," she muttered at length, "you're much too whiny to be a demon, and besides, if you _were_ my torturer, this would happen to be the most amateur session I've had the fortune to experience, so ...I might as well get on the same page." A sniff. "For now."

"What about you?" He inquired. "This can't be an everyday thing for you either."

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "And I don't like it."

He grinned. "Come on, I'm not that bad."

She huffed. "That's not it. But fresh torture is always more difficult after things like this that give me -"

She cut herself off abruptly.

"Give you what?"

"False hope," she finished softly. Carefully.

"It's been centuries, but when I saw you, I still got the tiniest burst of hope in my mind. I couldn't help myself. Now it's only growing," she continued bitterly, "so in the end when you go and it's all over and done with, the torture is going to be harder than before."

She frowned at how open and honest she was being - but she figured it she got a free pass after his sob story.

Dean watched her in quiet wonder, feeling that she didn't deserve this. Not an _eternity_. Maybe a few years at most, but he felt an aching in his heart when he thought of what stretched ahead of Bela in her future - that she had _nothing _to ever look forward to again, nothing to expect except constant pain. Once again, he was amazed at how she hadn't caved in. Not everyone in hell was offered the coward's way out - Alastair had called it a special 'privilege', hinting that to refuse would be a waste.

If he'd thought about this a bit further, he might have touched on the reason he was down here with her right now. It was staring him right in the face, after all.


	3. Quixoticelixer

**Thanks for all the support guys, I really appreciate it! This is by far the story I've had the most fun writing. I think with Dean and Bela it just never gets boring. Unless of course you're finding this boring. In which case... I'm sorry. :(**

* * *

"You want to know something?"

Bela was hunched over on the floor, using a scalpel to scrape dried blood off her toenails where it had congealed in ugly black lumps. She didn't even look up. "Not particularly."

Dean folded his arms and tore his eyes away from the curve of her spine. Rested them instead on the rocky wall. "I'm having a moment, Bela. It doesn't happen often."

"Do I look like the sharing and caring type to you?"

"No," he admitted. "But I'm sharing anyway."

Okay, she was a little curious. "If you must," she replied with a theatrical sigh. Kept scraping.

"I thought the next time I saw you again," he began, then paused. "Well, not that I willingly thought of that happening... it was more of a recurring nightmare I had." He grinned to himself. Probably thought he was bloody hilarious. "I figured you'd go dark side for _sure._ Honestly?" He shook his head. "I was expecting Demon Bela to rise up out of hell and kick my ass years ago."

She tilted her head and looked up slightly to try and catch his expression, but it was too dark to gauge it properly. Why was she even surprised that he thought so little of her? Stupid.

"Lord knows I had it coming," he muttered so quietly that she might have imagined it.

Bela stopped scraping. "Wouldn't that have been easy."

His gaze snapped back to her. "What do you mean?"

She merely snorted in reply.

Dean shrugged. "Whatever."

She was suddenly irritated that he hadn't pressed further. He really was clueless. She gave another snort.

Still nothing from Mr. Winchester.

Another, louder snort.

He frowned. "You want me to get you a tissue, or som-"

"What I _mean_," Bela enunciated, "and no offence, Dean - well, maybe a little offence - but what I mean is you're a bit of a coward."

"Excuse me?" He stared at her incredulously, as if her insulting him was some sort of new development. Granted, this time she'd gone straight for the ego and the barbed accusation stuck in him.

"What, hearing going already? Maybe it's just a bit of wax build-up. Or maybe ectoplasm?" She gave him a condescending smile, which was usually her go-to expression with Dean.

"Bela," he warned - actually _warned_! Only he was dumb enough to try threatening tone when she was already in Hell.

"Bela," she mimicked in an exaggeratedly low voice. She hadn't meant the coward thing at first, but now she was feeling an intense animosity towards the man who had, after all, left her to die and then tortured her himself in hell and then had the _audacity_ to intrude on her _now_, after all this time! - "Dean, you're such a fan of the easy way out. Doesn't it strike you as strange that you would rather fight a demon than attempt to reconcile with someone you've wronged?"

"_I've_ wronged?" Dean raised his eyebrows as far as they would go. "Mighty words coming from you, Bela," he remarked nastily, and suddenly he was feeling better because once again he was in a position where he could shrug off the guilt and blame and replace it with some good old-fashioned righteous anger. "Ha! After the things you did in your life, it's a wonder you even needed a demon deal to end up here in the first place."

"Yeah," she snapped. "Because you know _so much_ about my life."

"I think I know enough," he shot straight back with a dirty look to boot.

"That's your problem," she snarled and stood up before she could stop herself. "You wish everything was black and white, Dean, so you can _always_ be the good guy who does everything right and is misunderstood in anything remotely wrong he decides to do - and me, I'm the devil! I do everything I do because I'm selfish, hateful and an evil bitch."

Shocked by her outburst, he struggled to find something equally cruel to shout back at her and drew a blank.

Bela continued animatedly. There was no stopping her now. "And you know what?"

"Screw you, Dean, because if you want to believe everyone else who happens to get in your way is inhuman and a monster, then don't complain when everything doesn't fall right into place. If you want to invite me into your pretense then you might as well paint my eyes black first."

Dean glowered. "Yeah, this is all my fault, Bela. Not like you sold your soul, your parents' lives and God knows what else for a little extra cash. Not like you sold the freakin' Colt, which was funnily enough the only thing that stood a chance of helping you, to try and save your own skin and damned _me_ too in the process!"

"You were damned the moment you made that deal for your brother's life."

He faltered. "How the - how did you know why I made the deal?"

She gave him a superior smile. "Sam took the liberty of calling after the incident with Gordon. He wanted to know if there was a way out of a crossroads deal and - well, the _rest_ was obvious." She tossed her head contemptuously. "You didn't make that deal for him at all. You made it for yourself - and no, Dean, _don't _bother trying to pretend otherwise. You would rather sell your soul than deal with even the slightest amount of guilt. _That's_ what it boils down to."

She took a breath, then sat back down on the rack, facing away from him. "And you tell me _I'm _damaged."

He stared daggers into her back, which she ignored because she'd endured years of real daggers in that very back, although this seemed to hurt more... but _whatever._ Too long had Dean looked down upon her from his high horse. Who did he thing he was kidding? He belonged right where she was, writhing in the dirt just like the rest of them.

They waited in angry silence.

Dean's thoughts were a haze, which was actually quite common. He knew his eyes were jet-black - he'd felt them flare during the argument. Abruptly he rubbed them, as if to rub out the blackness. He could feel something seething inside him and instantly he knew that was his inner demon - quite literally.

The scalpel dropped from his hands as he did so with a clatter. He hadn't even noticed he'd snatched it up - it had felt like another finger, he realized with a pang of disgust. What was happening to him?

Bela didn't flinch at the sound, but she could feel, despite herself, her anger steaming away with each breath. She was suddenly struck with a loneliness unlike any that she'd felt in her entire life. The apology tumbled out of her lips unbidden. "I'm sorry, Dean."

He seemed just as surprised as her at this revelation.

"Didn't mean it," she said tentatively. "Not _all_ of it."

When he didn't reply, she felt a lump rise to her throat and she looked down as she continued, grateful for the hair that tumbled down and framed her face which she suspected was going to betray emotions that Bela Talbot adamantly refused to show. "It's - it's been five hundred years, Dean, I just-"

"I get it," he said finally. Quietly. To her it was almost soothing. "I'm sorry too."

Then, slowly, "I guess I shouldn't pretend I know you, Bela. Even if it makes it easier. That was my mistake," he admitted.

She interrupted him. "I get why you do it, though. I do. It's the job."

"The job," Dean repeated with a humorless laugh. The colour returned to his eyes. "Yeah. But Bela..." he shook his head and looked at her. "About you? I only know what you've told me. What you've told anyone."

"They were lovely people," she recalled in a whisper, still facing away from him, determined not to let him see her face.

"Uh-huh. Well, Bela, I kinda get the feeling you're not telling me something." There was a hint of mirth in his voice. Just a tiny little hint. It deflated the tension like a pin in a balloon.

"Compulsive liar, remember?" She smiled to herself.

Her heart was thumping in her chest. She would never tell. She would never ...

"Tell me?"

"Not a chance," she snapped. Her voice sounded so grumpy that Dean found himself chuckling.

She shook her head. "Unbelievable. Trust you to laugh in a serious conversation." She turned to give him a murderous look, but her lips betrayed her and curved upwards ever-so-slightly at the edges as she witnessed his shoulders shake.

She fought desperately to keep them straight. Tried to burn a hole in his skull with her eyes. Maybe that would teach him a lesson.

"C'mon," he grinned. "Smiling can't be _that _bad. You gotta try it sometime. Might as well..." he flicked his brows up and down in his infamous 'eyebrow wink' that he knew women couldn't resist (in his experience).

She almost won the battle of wills. _Almost._

"There we go," he said triumphantly as the right side of her mouth shot up like a snake. "Knew you had it in you!"

"Sorry," she quipped to regain her dignity. "It's just so ridiculous when you flick your eyebrows up like that..."

He gave her a _ha-ha_ look. Her smile broadened.

And now that she'd started... it was difficult to stop.

* * *

He slipped out later when she was asleep. As a demon, Dean now didn't feel the need to sleep, so he figured she wouldn't mind anyway. Well, she _would_ mind if she knew what he was planning to do, but tough - you snooze, you loose.

When he was sure he was out of eyeshot, earshot and sixth-sense-_someone-is-doing-something-I-disapprove-of-_shot, he stopped. He'd arrived at some sort of rocky outcrop. The land (under-land?) was uneven and inclined upwards. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn this was like a mountain. It felt kind of familiar, which was strange, because Dean had never set foot on a mountain in his life.

He shrugged. Probably better not to think about who's little corner of Hell this was and why gentle slopes terrified them so much.

"Crowley," he whispered. Then, feeling foolish for whispering. he cleared his throat. "Crowley!"

Nothing. Maybe he needed a ritual? Usually summoning a demon needed a ritual, but he'd assumed Crowley would be able to hear him, essentially being Lucifer V2 and all. He was struck with a grim sense of déja vu. How many times had he called to Castiel in a similar fashion? This was where he'd got to. Now he was praying to demons.

He waited another minute, then called one last time. This had been a stupid idea anyway...

Just as he turned to leave in a huff, guess who materialized in front of his nose?

"Speak of the devil," Crowley quoted good-naturedly, "and he shall appear. Although sometimes he is late."

Dean eyed Crowley's fluffy slippers and nightcap. "Did I interrupt something, big guy?"

"Yes, actually. Funny that you ask - I had the strangest dream. I was John Grant from _Wake in Fright_ and had this funny urge to drink copious amounts of bad liquor. It really was unsettling."

Dean stared. "Uh-huh. You gonna finish that little story?" Then, as an afterthought. "Man, that movie made me _so_ thirsty..."

"Well, Dean," Crowley said impatiently. "It's late so let's make this quick, alright? What can I do for you?"

Dean's face turned serious. "Bela's story. I want to know it."

Crowley's face split into a knowing smile that Dean was honestly sick of seeing. "She didn't tell you?"

"Nope."

"What were you doing all that time then?" He shook his head. "Never mind, I think I know. I'll have to send some clothes down there sometime. Can't have you distracted all the time... seeing how much of a slave to your sexual appetite you are."

Dean frowned. "What? No! She just won't tell me and since there isn't much else to do anyway, you might as well lay it out." Then as another afterthought, "but yeah, you should send down some clothes." He was only a man after all, and he was sure that a good chunk of the bad decisions he made in his life all began with him facing a naked woman.

Crowley shrugged. "I'll see what I can do. As for the story... Dean, I can't help you there. It just isn't my story to tell."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Another noncommittal shrug... would it hurt Crowley to take something seriously for once? Probably. Mental note - when it finally came down to it and he and Sammy had to gank Crowley, they would have to be as specific, obvious and grave as possible. The poor demon would be out of his league!

"Relax, squirrel. I just think this would be something better experienced in real-time. Some things are just better on the big screen."

Dean folded his arms. "You want me watch her life story on a TV? Can you even do that?"

Crowley snorted. "No. Well, that _is_ a good idea. Entertainment is a little bit one-sided down here - we could sure use a creative idea like that." He pulled out a smartphone and wrote a note down on it, holding up his finger as if to say _one moment, this is very important_.

"Dean, what usually happens when you have to learn something crucial?"

"I torture it out of someone?" Dean guessed. That sounded like the right answer down here.

The king of hell wagged his finger at him. "No, you bloodthirsty mongrel, you. The answer is, of course, you go back in time and experience it yourself." He smiled, looking pleased with himself.

Dean couldn't help pulling a face. "Of - _freakin' -_ course." He'd honestly had enough of trippy time travel in his lifetime. Then he frowned. "Well I'm pretty sure only angels can pull that off, and Crowley honey, you don't even cut it close."

Crowley took the compliment with a gracious nod.

"Ah. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe we have one of those at our disposal. I forget his name... although usually I just call him Fluffy."

Dean's face fell at the mention of Cas. "Does he-"

"He knows, don't worry. I took care of that a while ago. In fact," Crowley continued with an air of superiority, "he knows more about your predicament than you do yourself - he'd be more than willing to help."

"Great." Dean sighed and shook his head. "Why is this so important anyway? You should be able to just tell me. I like my movies but this ain't exactly the time and place."

"I won't bore you with the details, but believe me Dean, this _is_ important." His voice was matter-of-fact as ever, but something about it felt sincere for once. Probably because this was benefiting Crowley in the long run somehow. "I'll let Castiel debrief you tomorrow. Night!"

And he vanished just like that. Dean cursed. He should really have been used to a lack of straight answers by now, but damn if it wasn't irritating!

As he trudged back towards 'home', he realized what his surroundings reminded him of. "Son of a bitch," he breathed. "Crowley built a freakin' replica of Mount Doom."

* * *

**Next chapter: Dean goes back in time and overseas!**


	4. She Looks To Me

Bela awoke from her second painless sleep in five hundred years to the tell-tale echoing of her breath in the chamber that told her she was alone. Dean was gone now, probably taken somewhere by Crowley, and the interlude was up. Maybe he'd be back ... but she doubted it. Besides, torture would begin again soon. She sighed heavily, feeling the heaviness in her chest rising and rising until she thought it was sure to burst out of her - but instead, it rose through her throat and took up residence there.

Her eyes smarted despite herself. Bela wasn't typically a crier, but in hell anything went and certainly those first few years she had cried like a baby. And tears of physical pain came often still, but they were nothing significant and caused her no real extra discomfort.

But this, this was different. She really felt like she'd lost something here, which was a first in hell because the one thing she thought she could count on was having nothing left to lose. In a way it felt worse. These tears would hurt for real. It wasn't that she thought Dean was gone forever. That wasn't the point. The point was that torture was coming and the way to deal with that was to convince herself that no, Dean wasn't coming back, and that she couldn't care less about him anyway.

So she squeezed her eyelids shut fiercely and bowed her head until the moisture no longer threatened to spill out, then opened them and let her vision adjust. The most important thing now was getting back into the routine. Once she was in the routine, once she'd put all this Dean business behind her, she would be able to handle anything.

_DING DING DING!_

Torture sessions always began with the ringing of a crude bell, which also served as a wake-up call of sorts. It reminded Bela of ding-dong at the end of school back in England, the sound that signaled her return to her loveless home for the rest of the day. It was forever quaint how they never missed a thing in hell.

Bela got shakily to her feet, head still bowed. Looked inside herself and chased down that last bit of hope that perhaps she was to be exempted, that maybe Dean had given her temporary amnesty due to his stature, or - she thought wildly, bizarrely - maybe he'd just slipped out for breakfast, and he would be back now. She took that hope firmly beneath her fingers, wriggling desperately to be free, and crushed it. That was the big secret. That was how you survived hell.

Then she raised her head, forgot about Dean and waited for today's demon to come.

* * *

Castiel approached Dean solemnly, his eyes averted slightly - and Dean knew he was struggling not to look at his true demonic face. They were still in hell - Dean wasn't permitted to leave - but Castiel had entered and now they stood at the Mount Doom replica beside each other. It did feel kind of badass, until he remembered what he was actually about to do.

The silence needed to be broken, so Dean broke it. "So... hey again, Cas." Tried to give an uneasy smile. He just wasn't sure how Castiel would see him now. He recalled his own experience with monsters, and how long it'd taken him to accept that some of them simply weren't monsters.

Castiel was impassive as ever. "Hello Dean."

Well, how bad could it be?

"So, do you know what's goin' on here?" Dean eyed the trench-coated angel awkwardly. "Because I would be lying if I said I was sure."

"It is imperative that you resist your demonic urges, Dean," Cas said plainly. It was fact. He looked at Dean's face for the first time and didn't flinch. "Sam and I cannot allow you to become one of them."

"I'm with you on that," Dean nodded. "You gotta tell me how though. I don't want this anymore than you do."

"Dean..." Cas looked down. "Resisting demonic urges has always been difficult in hell. It will be more difficult to you since you have already succumbed once before."

Dean flinched.

"However..." he continued. "One soul in Hell has continued to repel the demonic temptation and instead endure torture for day after day, month after month..." He closed his eyes as if the pain physically hurt him as well. "Century after century."

Understanding dawned on Dean like the morning light - except this revelation was more like dusk. "So... Bela?"

Castiel nodded slowly. "Bela Talbot, the first woman you tortured while in perdition." And while the angel's voice was nothing but factual, Dean could hear nothing but accusation.

Dean shook his head angrily. "Figures. Just freakin' figures." Then, "So what? Bela has stuff to teach me or something?" He snorted. "_Wisdom_ to impart?"

"Bela will purify your soul," Castiel said simply.

Dean almost wanted to laugh out loud - Bela? Purifying something? Even she would find that idea absurd.

"Yes. But before that, you need to know her story. You need to understand Bela Talbot to be able to let her purge you. To understand her, you need to know the truth about her life. Those are your answers."

Dean swallowed thickly. Definitely not the answers he'd expected. In fact, he doubted them very much, but he'd wanted to know Bela's story anyway. He figured this was a win-win situation.

"Alright," he stated. "Then I'm ready. Let's go, Cas."

Castiel tilted his head, examining Dean for a second. Then he nodded and raised his head, looking up. "Hannah!"

Immediately, the angel appeared, scowling a little at her location (no angel liked being in hell. In fact, _nobody_ liked being in hell, full stop) but otherwise looking pretty intimidating.

Dean raised his eyebrows and couldn't resist giving an appreciative whistle. "Whoa, nice one Cas. This part of your hot chick garrison?" He grinned.

Castiel looked confused. "Hannah is a loyal friend, I have no authority over her. Her voluntary assistance is welcome and I am very grateful." Hannah gave him an encouraging smile in return.

Dean just rolled his eyes. "Oh God, Cas. Never would've pegged you as such a smooth talker..." He shrugged. "Everybody needs someone, I guess."

"The year 1995," Castiel breathed with his eyes closed, then took Hannah's hand and joined their power together. Their eyes glowed golden as the power manifested.

"Do we all hold hands then?" Dean asked sarcastically, and as usual the sarcasm flew above Castiel's head with a _whoosh_ and the angel nodded sombrely, then held out his hand flatly, as did Hannah.

Dean sighed and complied, and then everything went black.

* * *

He came to sprawled on concrete. A cold wind blew against his face as he picked himself up. Castiel and Hannah were standing next to him; they had landed perfectly. They were both staring at a building in front of them, characteristically serious expressions on their faces. Only Sam could rival a bitchface like that.

Brushing dirt off his jacket, Dean frowned through the gloom ahead of him. It was fog! He knew the weather sucked in England, but damn, everything was so _grey._

The house was huge, though. No kidding, it was like a mansion. Four cars parked with ample space in the front yard. Four very expensive cars, he noted. Well, there were no surprises there.

The front door was ornate - it even had a brass knocker.

"So, Cas." He turned to the angels. "What's the plan?"

Castiel studied him. "You are here to observe, Dean. We don't need a plan."

"So we're gonna stand here like perverts until we catch a glimpse of some action?" Dean shook his head./pp"I don't see the problem," Castiel said honestly, ignoring 'perverts' because he wasn't sure what it meant, but he was sure it was an insult.

"That's cause you can just fast forward through the time, Cas. I'm not gonna sit here and set up base camp for however long this is gonna take!" He looked around. The place seemed pretty far from any motels or bars - from other houses, even. That explained the silence; the lack of the comforting sounds of traffic rumbling down the street.

"Don't you think whoever lives here is gonna be a little curious as to why a bunch of maniacs are standing outside their house staring inside in what, I might add, is the creepiest possible fashion?"

"Nobody will notice us," Hannah answered. "We are hidden to to the naked eye when we wish to be."

Dean glared. "_I'm_ not!"

Castiel brought his finger to his lips quickly as he caught sight of something Dean couldn't see. "Shh. We arrived at the right time. This is indeed the night on which the deal is made."

Instead of arguing, Dean turned as a sleek-looking cab turned a corner and began to climb the sloping road towards them. "Shit," he whispered. "My British accent ain't that good, you know. I don't even have my FBI badge, although I don't think that would help much here anyway..."

He half-turned to Castiel who looked back solemnly. "Remember, Dean. All paths lead to the same destination. If you try and stop this you will simply twist it further. You are here to learn, not change."

With that, he and Hannah vanished in sequence.

Dean kneaded his forehead with frustration as the cab slowed near the driveway entrance. "Son of a _bitch_," he muttered and tried to think fast, something which he had yet to quite get the hang of concerning the world of hunter espionage.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the car roll into the driveway past him and park expertly. Out stepped first an elderly, balding man who opened the back door for a young-looking girl dressed in uniform, clutching a backpack. "Thanks, Creedy," came her thin voice over the wind, in a posh accent. Dean guessed Creedy was a chauffeur, or butler or something else rich people could afford.

As they left the car he wondered wildly if they'd not even noticed him, but to no avail as they set off towards him. He sighed.

"Excuse me, sir," came Creedy's voice, "Can I help you?" So polite. If it was Dean, he would've probably yelled 'dude, the hell are you doing on my property?'

The girl strode up beside him. One look at her face confirmed that yes, this was a young Bela Talbot. Her hair was thinner, wirier, her face younger, but the angles of her face were telltale.

Dean put on a frustrated air, which he didn't find difficult at all. He thought briefly of trying out the accent, but that was _never_ going to work, so he spoke normally.

"Uhhh... well... yeah, kinda. Well I'm a little lost right now."

Bela frowned at his accent and her mouth twitched. "What, wrong country?"

He bit back a sordid response, doubting that Bela of what looked like fourteen or fifteen years old could handle their usual banter. "Ha-ha, no. See, I'm here on vacation and I told the cab guy to get me to someplace to stay, but I think I lost my wallet and he ditched me somewhere out here, the freakin'-"

"I see," interrupted Creedy, seeming to sense the expletive before it came. "That sounds most unfortunate."

"Yeah," Dean grinned sheepishly, acting the fool. "You're telling me!" He scratched his head. "Any motels around here?"

"Motels?" Bela shouldered her backpack and eyed him curiously. "There's a Travelodge about two hundred miles out."

Dean's face fell visibly. The chauffeur looked on him with pity. "I would offer you a lift, but I'm on a schedule."

Dean's stomach chose that time to let out an impressive gurgle. He hadn't felt the need to eat in hell, sadly enough, but now that he was ... well, out of hell on loan, it was like all that hunger came back into him at once. It cramped up his stomach. Did half-demons need to eat? Apparently so...

The noise made Bela stifle a giggle. She looked up at his defeated expression and then to her chauffeur. "He could stay for dinner, Creedy. He seems positively famished."

Creedy nodded reluctantly. "I suppose it _is_ late. You should stay, sir, then I could drop of you off at nine or so? You do seem to have been inconvenienced enough as it is."

"Uh... yeah, actually," Dean managed. "Thanks, man, I really do appreciate it."

The chauffeur smiled in return, then beckoned to follow him. "I didn't catch your name, mister...?"

Dean followed uncertainly, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. "Dean."

"Mr. Dean?"

"Yep." He cursed silently. The whole 'cover' thing was so much easier when Sam did it, or when the name was written on a piece of card in his wallet. "John Dean."

"Albert Creedy." The man held out a hand and Dean shook it. "I'm a chauffeur for the Richards'."

Bela sneaked a look at this John Dean, who made her want to back away and laugh at the same time. He just looked so disheveled and caught-out. "That's a funny name," she told him as she fell back into line with his step.

He scowled down at her. "Yeah, and what's your name?"

"Abby."

"Damn, being born without a surname must suck," Dean mumbled.

"Abigail Isabella Richards," she corrected, somewhat proudly. If the Richards were anything, they were respected. There was one perk about her family. "So, you're from the States?"

Dean tried not to puff out his chest too proudly. "Yeah. Lawrence, Kansas."

"I've always wanted to go to America," she said wistfully. "The things I hear about New York..."

He avoided her speculative gaze as they neared the front door, reminding himself that this was Bela, not just any kid - he'd have to be careful about what he said. "Yeah, who knows. Maybe one day you'll get to go."

When Creedy offered to hang his leather jacket on the coat rack for him, Dean did his best to politely refuse.

"Whoaaa," Dean muttered as they entered. The house was _huge_. Was that a chandelier? It seemed more like a luxury hotel than a house, what with the _two_ god-damn staircases. "Even bigger on the inside."

Bela feigned nonchalance, although secretly she was delighted that she'd managed to impress this straight-jawed American with that glint in his eyes. "This is nothing, you should see the summer home."

Creedy gave a brief smile. "I'll put the kettle on, eh? Abby, do sit him down on the sofa. We'll show him some good hospitality. Dean allowed her to lead him through a doorway into a rather impressive living room. He plonked himself down on the couch with a contented sigh - if hell lacked something, it was comfort!

She sat opposite him, fascinated despite herself. Even with his eyes half-closed Dean could feel her curiously examining him. He popped one open. "Bet this doesn't happen too often, huh?"

She shook her head and busied herself into rummaging around in her backpack, flushing slightly. "No, certainly not around here."

He grunted. "You sure you should even be letting me in? I could be a burglar." He smiled faintly. "Bet your mom won't be happy about this."

"Mum won't mind," she replied blithely, as if the answer was more on the lines of _mum won't care_. "Besides, if you're a thief, you aren't a very good one." Seemed to finally find what she was pretending to be looking for in her bag, pulling it out - a notebook.

"Homework?" Dean guessed, leaning forward out of his slouch as the sound of a kettle boiling drifted past his ears. He scoffed. "I never did my homework."

"More fool you," she recited as she flipped pages over to the right page and set the book down on the table.

He peered over at it. "The heck is that?" He pointed rather unceremoniously at a drawing on the page.

"Battle of the Somme." She traced the drawing with a finger and preened. "An illustration by me."

"Why did you only draw half a man over there?"

"Other half is stuck in the mud," she pointed out. "Or a trench... whichever way you look at it."

Dean pretended to be interested as footsteps resounded behind him and Creedy approached, a laden tray balanced on his hands. He tried not to look too happy when he spotted a plate full of biscuits as the tray was set down.

Creedy poured the tea into three mugs. It was steaming hot. Dean took one and tried not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of expensive Earl Grey (not that he could tell)._ Oh Sammy, if you could see me right now_, he thought with an inward chuckle.

"Milk?"Dean shook his head. "Nah, I like it strong." _It_ in this case referring to coffee. But hey. How different could tea be?

The chauffeur-slash-butler handed a cup to Bela and smiled when he saw the exercise book. "Showing him some World War history, are we?"

"I've got to get this done by tomorrow," Bela shrugged. "Might as well start now."

"Don't suppose John here could help you with any terminology?" Creedy glanced over at Dean, who remembered quickly he was supposed to be John. "You look like you've seen some action. Military?"

"My Dad was a marine," Dean admitted, cradling his tea. "I served some time as well." Then, "... is it that obvious?"

"It's the scars," the man elaborated. "You could cover them with make-up, but something tells me you're not the type."

Dean smiled wryly. "I could totally pull it off."

He felt compelled to ask some of the usual questions he asked when he was on a case. In fact, he was here to learn more about Bela's life, so it was as good of an idea as any. "So ... is this family related to the Queen?"

Bela almost choked over a sip of tea and put the cup down, colouring slightly. "Not quite!"

"You seem kinda rich. I dunno."

"I think that's owed to the success of the Richards' family business," Creedy affirmed. "Wallace Richards is a smart man and he's worked hard to get here."

Dean resisted the urge to say _what about Gromit?_ and nodded. "Seems that way." He reached over for a chocolate biscuit. "Never seen cookies like these before," he commented as he took a bite, then closed his eyes in relish. "Now I know what I've been missing my whole life!"

Bela watched him eat it with fascination as she blew into her mug. "It's a bourbon cream."

"Bourbon?" Dean mumbled through a mouthful. "No wonder it tastes so good!" He and Creedy shared a knowing look at Bela's confusion.

He reached for another two biscuits. "So what's the family business?"

"Stocks," Bela responded somewhat dismally. "Daddy's a stockbroker."

"Sounds like you don't want to go the same way."

"I want to be an archaeologist," Bela asserted dreamily. "And not just because of Indiana Jones."

Dean couldn't hold back a grin. "I suppose you'd enjoy procuring unique items."

Light shone in her eyes. "I hear there are talismans and artifacts and emlibraries/em of dusty old tomes just waiting to be discovered." She looked down at her book crossly. "Although when I chose History I was rather hoping for more ancient history rather than World War One..."

Dean swallowed some more tea. "Times like these are when it helps to have a genius younger brother to do your work for you."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think Abby's pretty lucky to be an only child." Creedy smiled genially. "I grew up in a family of four. We drove each other mad."

"Nah, don't get me wrong, me and little Sammy fight all the time," Dean said quickly, "but we got each other's backs. That's what matters."

Bela was quiet, head bowed down at her book. She wondered what it might be like to have someone watch her back and protect her like that.

An hour passed like this - Dean chatting with the chauffeur, Bela concentrating on her work and tea being drunk all round. She felt oddly at peace as she did her homework. Today was turning out to be a good day. She had company - strange company, but interesting company nevertheless. Usually she had the house to herself (and Creedy) after school, and the loneliness could get crushing.

What's more, today her father was working a late shift and wouldn't be back until past midnight, by which time she would be asleep. As for her stepmother, well she lived more like little Abby didn't even exist, and wouldn't be back until ten anyway.

Things were looking up!


	5. Midnight

"Damn," Dean exclaimed as he scraped the last bit of meat pie off the plate. "That was amazing."

Bela was smiling as she ate, considerably slower than him. "What, you've never had shepherd's pie before?"

He shrugged. "I don't really do domestic. It's probably been years since I've had a home-cooked meal to be honest."

Her face screwed up as one might upon tasting a bitter lemon. "What do you do then, eat at restaurants and fast-food outlets all the time? That must be horrible."

"It's really not so bad," he grinned. "Thanks for the grub, Creedy."

The sound of the clock striking nine surprised Dean. Had it really been three hours already?

The time had flown, surprisingly. He'd scoffed at the homework, eaten about ten of the chocolate-layer biscuits and drunk the tea which was, loathe as he was to admit it, not all that bad. God, Sammy would have a field day if he knew that. Tea was not a Dean Winchester drink.

He'd asked Creedy for a pack of cards and then tried to teach Bela - Abby - how to play poker. She caught on fast and managed to hoodwink him with an impressive poker face that made him grumble 'wow, how typical' (at which she'd frowned and said 'what?' and he'd shaken his head and said 'oh, nothing'). They wagered in Bourbon biscuits.

The more time he spent, the more mystified he got. How did this innocent girl with a bright future and her own friggin' personal butler turn into Bela Talbot? He couldn't exactly ask 'hey, Abby, why'd you kill your parents?' or 'you seen a demon around lately?'. It just didn't make sense. Neither could he kick the pity he was feeling for her because every now and then he would remember that the person in front of him was going to spend five hundred years in hell, and it was sad really because she mentioned her ambitions and dreams and it was just like, _ha, nope, not gonna happen_.

"I guess it's time then," he said at length. The whole theory of Bela would have to wait til the next day, it looked like. That contradicted what Cas had said about this being _the night_, but for whatever reason the angel must've gotten the date mixed up because it was probably bedtime for Bela soon enough and he didn't see anything suspicious. It certainly wouldn't be the first time the angel was wrong.

Creedy nodded at him and stood up from his seat. "I'll drop you off then."

Bela, who was still eating, looked slightly disappointed but, to her credit, hid it well. If Dean didn't know her sneaky expressions like he did, he would have missed it. As it was, he didn't, and felt the strangest warmth inside his chest.

"Bye," she said nonchalantly, concentrating on her food. Creedy had gone to fetch Dean's coat which, eventually, Dean had given in to letting go of (if just temporarily).

"You're a good kid, you know," Dean found himself saying. "And you got a life ahead of you. Just, uhh, remember that, okay?" He winced at how awkward that sounded, and hurriedly turned away and strode towards the doorway to avoid her perplexed look. "Don't throw it away," he paused and finished as he heard the sound of a car in the distance, guessing Creedy had already started up. "Thanks for the hospitality. See you around."

The chauffeur had not, in fact, started the car yet and was waiting at the door for Dean. He handed over the coat which Dean put on with a sigh of relief, and opened the door.

The mystery of the car engine was solved as a Mercedes rolled slowly into the driveway and parked inside. Creedy looked just as surprised as Dean. "He's supposed to be working late tonight," the old man murmured under his breath.

Mr. Richards had the lean figure of a man who calculated everything in his life. His teeth were white - too white - and his hair slicked into a forced parting that looked neat but unnatural. He approached Dean and Creedy looking slightly bemused.

"Evening Creedy," he nodded. "Who's this?"

Creedy looked at Dean. "He was stranded on the road outside here a couple of hours ago, sir. Abigail and I decided it would be rude to send him packing, especially since someone stole his wallet."

"Name's John," Dean supplied with an uneasy smile.

Wallace returned the smile, although it never reached his eyes, and extended a hand. "Wallace Richards."

Dean shook it. "I was just leaving, actually. Don't wanna be any more trouble." He figured being polite was the way to go here.

A nod from the stockbroker which carried along with it the coldest look one could give while still acting subtle. Dean's spidey sense started to tingle.

Creedy pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. "I'm just going to drop him off at the nearest hotel."

"Oh, no need," Wallace said smoothly. "It's a lovely night, I'm sure the walk will be refreshing."

"Of course, sir," the butler conceded immediately.

Dean knew instinctively that to argue would be both stupid and pointless, so he merely shrugged. "Guess I'll get going then. Thanks for everything," he said to assure Creedy he didn't mind. "It's been a great evening."

Fake smiles all around, and then Dean was leaving the driveway as Creedy and Mr. Richards returned to the house. Well, he wasn't leaving - he was just pretending to be leaving. Something was definitely off here and Dean was willing to bet it was something to do with Wallace Richards.

* * *

He was peering through the window when a hand touched him on the shoulder. He jumped and cursed as he turned around to a sincere expression on Castiel's face. "Jesus, dude."

The angel surprised him by smiling. "What would you like to know about Jesus?"

"It's an expression, Cas."

The smile faded. "Have you learned yet? Hannah is anxious to leave. There are matters she needs to attend to in Heaven."

"You didn't exactly give me long to think of a cover story," Dean huffed. "But anyway, everything's fine except for Wallace over there who kinda gives me the creeps. So just like any other case I'm gonna investigate." It really did feel like a case, too, apart from the jarring absence of Sam watching his back. This was how it felt to work a case without a partner. This was how Dad used to work.

Castiel nodded. "I can aid you in your investigation."

"Nuh-uh," Dean said quickly. "You just stay right here. I don't need you in my way."

Ignoring Cas' slightly affronted expression, Dean crouched on the balls of his feet and crept along the wall of the mansion, which felt like it went on forever. He needed to find a way inside that wasn't as obvious as the front door. He doubted he would have much difficulty sneaking around the place as it was so huge, and he hadn't seen any servants or anything like he'd expected, so there were probably just the three people in the house at the moment.

He went past a number of locked windows before he found one that didn't protest at his touch and swung inwards. Bingo!

Legs first, he ducked through the window and onto a carpeted floor which muffled his landing. Man, everything about this house was ornate. He gave the room a quick check to make sure he hadn't accidentally dropped in somewhere in plain view of everyone. Judging by all the books, he was in a study.

Once again, he wasn't too sure what he was doing. Dean was very much a _do first, think later _kind of person and it served him well considering his profession. Now that he was inside the house, it occurred to him that he didn't even know what he was supposed to be looking for, but neither did it irk him. He took things in his stride.

A peek from the doorway confirmed that he wasn't about to get spotted. He could hear the murmur of voices down the hall. That might be a good place to start.

Hugging the shadows of the wall, he slunk down the corridor, nearing the living room as the voices grew louder.

"Sir, it might be a good idea to sit down, I'll make you some tea-"

The angry voice of Mr. Richards cut the butler off. "Did I ask for tea? I told you to get out. Your services aren't required anymore."

"Sir-"

"I've had a shitty day, Al. Like, a _really_ shitty day, so don't test my patience. Pack your stuff and get out, because I've decided we don't need a butler anymore. Got it?. I want you gone by tomorrow morning."

An uncomfortable silence descended, followed by a meek "Yes, sir," from Creedy.

Dean winced. That was probably his fault somehow. _Sorry, bud._

If anything though, this reeked of dysfunctional. At least for tonight. As Creedy went, morosely, to pack his things, Dean watched Mr. Richards. The man was giving him weird vibes all over. He'd taken off his suit jacket and now stood, fists clenched, with his tie still done up. Clearly he was pissed about something. What Dean didn't know was that Wallace had taken a risky gamble with a company that had unfortunately not paid off, and as a result he was in a particularly vile mood.

Abruptly, Wallace turned on his heel and strode briskly through into Dean's corridor, who managed to duck into a shadow just in time. He caught the all-too-familiar afterscent of alcohol in the air. _Oh boy._

Dean followed from a safe distance behind. Pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. He could sense something odd about this night - events seemed to be culminating to something. Guess Cas was turning out to be right after all. It didn't take a genius to see what was wrong.

Just past another living room was the dining room. Dean chose to slip silently into the living room while Wallace entered the dining room, where Bela was still eating.

"How was school?"

Bela's response was so quiet Dean almost didn't catch it. "Fine."

"Anything new?"

"Not really."

"Hm," Wallace mused. He seemed to have gotten a grip on his temper from whatever had happened at work. "I hear you and Creedy had a guest today."

Almost like she'd rehearsed the reply, she spoke quickly. "It was some poor tourist. His cabbie ditched him on our street because someone stole his wallet. Honestly, we were just trying to get rid of him as quickly as possible."

Her voice was so much meeker now. It had lost the excited edge of a fifteen-year old and had taken on the dull sheen of someone who had seen a lot more and knew to stay quiet and not to provoke.

"I see," he replied. "Well, I hope he didn't cause us too much trouble."

Then, "come on now, Abby. You finished eating long ago, it's time for bed now."

"I'm still hungry," Bela protested in a voice so quiet Dean had to strain his ears to hear it.

"Well, it's almost ten o'clock so it's time for bed." There was a clattering sound which Dean guessed was the plates being put away. "Go on. I'll be up to tuck you in in a minute."

Dean hid himself quickly as Bela exited the dining room and trudged over to the stairs. Her face was angled away but she didn't look annoyed, or cross, like a child might if told to go to bed early - rather, she simply appeared defeated - resigned, even. It was in her manner, the way each footstep was now heavy instead of light and carefree as it had been before.

Wallace followed not long after. Dean stayed put for a couple of minutes, crouched, heart thumping like it did on hunts when he felt in anticipation of something - even though he wasn't too sure _what_. It didn't seem like anything was going to happen and he doubted following them upstairs would be a good idea.

But then again, Dean wasn't one to come all this way and then leave a job half done.

When he heard the bedroom door open, then a moment later, close, he ducked out of the room and went for the staircase. Years of ghostbusting in still-inhabited houses had taught Dean how to silently walk up stairs, so his ascent was noiseless - rather like a ghost itself. It helped that they were caked in embroidered carpet.

Unfortunately, he nearly gave the game away when he reached the top and poked his head around a corridor to the sight of two of his favourite angels staring solemnly at a door in front of them. He heaved a sigh, bit back the urge to demand what they were doing (because he really should have gotten used to this sort of thing by now) and focused on the task at hand, which was of course to see what was behind that very door.

Castiel gave him a sad look as Dean approached them. As Dean got closer, he realised why - the faintest of sobs could be heard through the doorframe. Pathetic sobs punctuated with sniffs and cut-offs and those high-pitched hiccups that could soften even the hardest man's heart.

Now, Dean Winchester lived by his instincts. One of these instincts was his 'protector' impulse, the one that led him to, again and again, put his own life on the line for innocent people - the same one that led to his eventual self-condemnation for his little brother's life - the same one that kept him awake at night with guilt for the people who'd died for _him - _his father, Jo, Bobby...

Naturally, hearing a child in distress sent this instinct into overdrive. Dean forgot about staying hidden, forgot about demons, forgot about 'all paths lead to the same destination'. He simply stepped back and launched his foot at the door, fully intending to break it down and then go in and _stop_ whatever was going on in there - whatever Wallace Richards was doing to Bela - with the sort of righteous fury he wouldn't admit he had a tendency to.

As it was, his foot fell short, impeded by an invisible barrier. Next to him Cas' expression grew more sombre. The angel was blocking him.

"Cas," he said angrily. "Let me go!"

Try as he might, he couldn't get past. Worse, he could hear screaming now which made him even more desperate to get inside. He opened his mouth to shout something - perhaps get Wallace's attention somehow - but his vocal cords constricted and no sound came out.

Beside him Cas eyed the door with a frown. "Dean, I told you you cannot interfere. It would only make things worse," he stated. "Lilith is inside this house right now. She has just inhabited the body of Albert Creedy. She cannot sense us as of now but if you open that door, she will, and she will do everything in her power to ensure you don't prevent this."

Dean continued to struggle because, as he figured, bring it on, Lilith! Killing her would be like Christmas come early - none of this apocalypse shit would even have a _chance _to happen. At the thought of Sammy living a normal life, he tore at the barrier with renewed vigour. This time, something powerful stirred in him. He could feel the first blade burning a hole in his jacket. His arm started to sear and he felt the barrier give way slightly.

Hannah, who was holding up the barrier beside Castiel, shot him a worried look. "We should go, _now_" she muttered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Cas turn to her and then nod once. Then he felt like he was being engulfed in burning-bright light that seared his eyes and drove all thoughts from his head until he had no choice but to fall unconscious.

The last thing he felt was the hollow bitterness of failure in the back of his throat.

* * *

Thanks for reading and for all the support. Next chapter... Dean returns to the land of the living and makes another unsettling discovery!


	6. On Mercury

He came to back where it had started, on the faux-mountain. Naturally, the two angels were gone. He breathed in hell's musky air, which he was starting to get used to (hopefully not for long), and pulled himself to his feet while uttering some choice words about Castiel and his 'don't intervene' plan. Angel logic never made any sense, and besides - why take advice from the fallen angel who thought it would be a good idea to swallow half of the crap in purgatory, then regurgitate it back out and create another major crisis for humanity?

Okay, he was a little angry right now. But he'd _known _this would happen at the same time, since after all, it happened last time. He should have been prepared for it. Just...

...he couldn't have prepared for _that_. He couldn't have imagined something so despicable to befall Bela. From the way she always acted, he thought that maybe it was just some mistake she'd made as a child, or an accident that might've happened. Once again, the truth was far more sinister than Dean could have imagined.

And he thought he felt bad about how he'd treated her before? Oh man. He was in for it big time now.

Dean tried to group his thoughts together into their regular soldier-like array, but he found that, like when John and Sam died, like when Lucifer took his baby brother, he couldn't. Of course it was that feeling that always robbed him his peace of mind - guilt.

He set off down the mountain, knowing where he had to go but not in a hurry. Sometimes in these situations he would vent out loud, but today he kept silent. It felt fitting.

The worst thing was that with every step he could feel the first blade jarring his hip. It was like it was impossible to forget it was there.

His thoughts wondered towards Sam. What would he be doing right now? Last time Dean was in hell, he came back to see Sam knee deep in demon blood. Hopefully Sam would accept Dean's 'death' and move on - well, it was a stretch of a hope, but surely there was a sense of finality in the way he'd gone out? And if Sam found out exactly what had happened to him now...

Bela ignored him when he finally trudged in. She was clothed now, in rags, but not shivering anymore, sitting back on the rack and chewing her lip.

Dean raised an eyebrow as the tension in the room threatened to peak. "Honey... I'm home."

She sighed, which he took as an invitation to sit down, which it was not.

She turned to him crossly. "Must you continue to bother me so?"

"Yep," he retorted automatically, eyes scanning the room for something to fix his gaze upon as he prepared for what he was going to say next. He sucked at this kind of thing... but he _had_ to tell her.

She huffed something unintelligible. She was more annoyed at the fact that she'd begun hoping a little again. In Bela's eyes, hope was the lie you told yourself when things were _really_ screwed up to keep yourself going. And Bela was a skilled liar. What did she even want? Who knew. And now for another ride on the emotional rollercoaster that was Dean Winchester's company - charming!

"Bela ... you ever meet someone named John?"

Taken aback by the apparent randomness of the question, her scowl disappeared despite herself. She recovered quickly though, and replaced it haughtily like a bird cleaning her feathers. She didn't intend to dignify his question with an answer, but nevertheless, her mind flicked back through scattered memories of the various Johns she'd known when she was alive.

There was John in California, one of her clients who'd been especially demanding in maintaining his collection of cursed books. She'd never been able to get a good price out of that old miser, but it was all good because she'd hoodwinked him into purchasing a set of 'haunted' encyclopaedias which, in truth, she'd nicked off a pompous door-to-door salesman who was unpleasant to her cat.

Then there were a bunch of vague contacts with budding hunters who strived to be the next 'John Winchester' and expected their forename to give them some sort of a headstart... yeah, they were probably all dead too.

Of course, there was John Winchester himself. He was to smart to sell or buy anything from her though, so all she knew of him was from various exaggerated rumours.

There were probably more from earlier on in her life, but when she could help it, she chose not to think about life back then. It was so _different_ to who she'd ended up becoming. It was more like looking at the world in the eyes of someone else entirely.

Her expression betrayed none of this pondering, so Dean continued.

"See, there's this guy called John Dean..."

The name didn't flip any immediate switches in her mind, so for a moment she brushed it off, assuming he was just making a reference to some famous band member that she didn't care to understand because, for her, Chopin and Bach were far more stimulating than a guitarist with a hoarse voice.

But as the name reverberated briefly in her head, an image came to light - a long, long time ago, before her deal - no, not entirely _before_, it was around the same time as the deal, wasn't it? That was the reason she could remember him clearly. An American tourist with a rather loud stomach - yes, she'd giggled at that, hadn't she? Oh god, he'd had green eyes-

Abruptly she glanced at Dean if just to match the two images in her mind and found he was staring right back at her, a meaningful expression on his face that was almost comically strained. His eyebrows rose as he regarded the comprehension in her sharp features. "Theeeeere it is."

It _had_ been him-

"-but how?" She finished aloud. This one didn't make any sense.

He caught on quick, to his credit. "Angels, uh, time travel..." he shrugged, hands thrown up. The gesture was casual, gentle in its body language, but the heat on her cheeks only flared further.

Then the _other_ _thing_ dawned on her and for a moment she went very still. This was one day she'd been sure would never come. And yet... why else would he have gone back in time? Oh, and trust him to do everything in the most brazen manner possible and literally _travel back in time _to figure something about her out, and _no, _it didn't make her feel important or particularly _special_ inside, because now someone knew her biggest secret til date, the one she'd lied the most to conceal.

Bela breathed in and out slowly, composing herself. "Fine," she said at length. "So you know."

He popped his tongue in his cheek. He'd kinda been expecting something more dramatic than the slight flare of her nostrils.

Instead, she gave him a look of fleeting disbelief. "Is that ... _disappointment_...?"

Dean caught himself and rearranged his expression hastily. "Uh, no. Nah, I'm just ... sad for you, that's all, you know... and I feel bad."

It was Bela's turn to raise her eyebrows. "Oh, Dean. What do you want me to do, sob on your shoulder?" She felt surprisingly calm. In a way, she felt _more_ calm than she usually felt, like something had been lifted off of her shoulders, some wild joy taking root in her heart when it had no right to. It came out as condescending sarcasm, of course ... that was how things tended to come out when one conversed with Dean Winchester.

He shook his head. "I just wanna let you know that I suppose I misjudged you back... back when you were alive. I was so sure you were a bitch and deserved everything you got..."

Bela palmed her forehead. "Oh, god, now he's being all _sincere_..."

"Seriously, Bela." His face was rather earnest for a budding demon. "What you deserved was a fightin' chance. I got you all wrong and I suppose in a way, it's my fault you're down here."

She frowned. "Dean, I'm not one to take unnecessary blame, but this case is pretty straightforward. I made a deal and I'm in hell, that's about how things happen. You did the same. We don't owe each other anything."

"I didn't stay long," he pointed out lamely.

"And you feel guilty about that? Sorry," she smiled a little sadly, "but that's got nothing to do with me."

Dean paused. "Well I'm sorry princess, but it does." He flashed her what he hoped was a winning smile, and the next sentence came out before he even made the conscious decision to say it. "I'm gettin' you out of here."

He half-expected the drama to begin then. Maybe she'd sob and melt into his arms and thank him and maybe they'd kiss as the screen faded to black or ... yeah, no, that was a bit far-fetched. That notion kinda fell apart the moment he reminded himself that this was Bela Talbot. And... kiss? What was he, nuts?

As it was, her walls weren't quite that easy to get through.

She lounged back a little. "You know, I thought you might say that."

Dean watched her warily. Her body language took him by surprise. She gave no indication of inclination to move or show any particular emotion besides the superior indifference written across her face. "... You don't want to go."

A telltale shake of her head confirmed this. "No, Dean. I don't."

He narrowed his eyes, scanning her for signs of a joke, finding none, then scoffed. "And... why is that, I suppose?"

She even looked a little amused at his confusion. "I don't have to explain myself to you..." It came out rather more coldly than she'd meant it to, but that was just a bonus. The point was to get him to back off.

He frowned. "Why you gotta be so defensive all the time? I swear, Bela, this is your problem. You keep all these secrets and it never gets you anywhere. I mean, you're in hell, what more do you have to hide?"

Dean eyed her for a few more seconds.

Wait, no," he accused, "I got it. It's pride, isn't it? You're just too proud to let me get you out of Hell, that's it." He laughed like it was absurd. "I don't believe it."

"Do you really find that so surprising?" Bela cocked her head. "You really don't know me at all."

"Don't pretend that you don't want out. Everybody wants out." He punctuated the last three words, daring her to defy them.

"Not like this," she whispered.

Bela didn't fancy being dragged out of hell on a guilty whim, and certainly didn't fancy owing her life to Dean Winchester (or anyone, for that matter). Not that she'd had much of a chance at life anyway - ten years spent trying to get out of an unbreakable deal - there really wasn't much for her up above ground.

She wasn't just another chapter in Dean's life, another one of the hapless women he'd rescued from _unfortunate circumstances_.

"Bela, c'mon. I don't know how you feel about this whole situation, okay? I can guess, though. Let me tell you straight up, you don't owe me anything. Consider this my debt to you for the rabbit's foot, or something. Hey, I did you wrong. I owe you your fightin' chance." He turned her chin towards him as she moved to stare at the wall. "Just... please, Bela. Look at me."

He sensed her begin to cave when she didn't immediately remove his hand from her face.

When she eventually did, he continued. "I'll get you up and out, then you do you. I'll never bother you again - scout's honour." Then, as an afterthought, "Well, as long as you don't steal my stuff."

Twitch of her lips. He was so close! She wanted him to do it as well. She _wanted_ him to convince her.

He stood up. "What do you say?"

Bela rolled her eyes. It was simply getting too theatrical. She sat up lazily. "Oh, alright then."

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bit shorter than the others but I hope it was still enjoyable. we're nearing the end folks! thanks for all of the kind words and follows/favs. I really do appreciate them :)


	7. Higher Ground

**heeeey! merry christmas and a happy new year to all of you. i actually meant to update this on christmas... but it was christmas, so of course that didn't happen. **

**i have a lovely ending all planned out and almost fully written so please hold on to your seats. **

**thank you for the continued support. nothing feels better than seeing the emails i get whenever someone new follows or favourites this story.**

* * *

Stepping out of the chamber for the first time in five hundred years was interesting.

In a way, Bela felt exhilarated. If nothing, the change of scenery was welcome to her eyes, after all. In its own dangerous way, Hell was beautiful.

Nevertheless, her knees buckled as she took the first step. The breeze in her face blew away all her thoughts for a minute. Dean was there to catch her, a strong arm snaking its way around her waist and propping her up. It was physical contact she hadn't even known she wanted.

Her next few steps were similarly uneasy. Was it real, or was this all simply a particularly elaborate form of psychological torture?

Dean's rough-smooth voice cut short her wonderings. "You know, I said we're gettin' out, but to be honest I have no idea how to do that." He set a pace for the both of them and she found herself able to keep up. She tilted her head up to catch the faint, genuine smile on his face, and realised suddenly that the whole affair meant so _much _to him. He was happy now. His face was more carefree and unburdened, more boyish than ever. In his own guilt-ridden, wisecracking, macho manner, he really did care.

"Let's just keep going," she breathed. She was walking normally now, and had slipped his arm from her waist.

"Fine by me," he chuckled as they passed a cemetery filled with unmarked graves. Instead of wondering why _anyone_ would need a cemetery in Hell, let alone graves, he found himself sneaking a look every few seconds at Bela's hair. The red taint of blood was faded, almost gone now, and he couldn't help but wonder if it had always been this golden.

"Cas will get us out," he said confidently after a minute. "He's done it before, after all."

"You never did tell me _why _you got a free ticket out of here, by the way," Bela observed, stepping gingerly over a rotting skull protruding out of the earthen-red ground and grinning at them both. "For all I know, this Castiel bloke just really really likes you."

Dean snorted. "You don't wanna know."

"What, you like him too?" She quipped with a smirk. "Have you told him yet?"

He scowled at the cheap shot. "Okay, so you _do _wanna know. Well, I," and he jabbed a thumb at his own chest in mock pride, "was the original vessel for Archangel Michael."

"Oh?"

"Yup," he continued. Then, as an afterthought, "either that, or I broke the world and Cas made me go fix it."

"Quite the hero," she grinned.

"I didn't do anything according to plan," he continued, with real pride this time. "Instead of killing Lucifer, I stuffed the bastard back in his own cage. Old Mikey went too."

And so he found himself recounting the past few years. He told her about Soulless Sam and Eve. He recalled the Leviathans and Purgatory. She revealed that she'd once dealt with an anti-Leviathan charm and that it was probably still sitting in her apartment in New York, collecting dust. At this, Dean went very silent, folded his arms and looked deliberately away from her until she told him it was probably a fake anyway.

He even found himself telling her about his year with Lisa and Ben. She was surprised when she felt a pang of jealousy in her chest, and then it was gone, quickly as it had come, so naturally she pretended it had never happened.

"What about you," Dean began after a tranquil minute during which they ascended another replica of Mount Doom, with that infectious smile of his playing on his features. "What's the first thing you wanna do up above?"

"No idea," she replied truthfully. Up until now, she'd only be thinking of what she would be _escaping _by getting out - not what she would be escaping _to_. What did she miss? She missed her cat, but he was gone now. She missed quite evenings and spas and fancy restaurants and human company, something she felt she'd only just begun to delve into when she died.

As if echoing her thoughts, Dean spoke up. "C'mon, there must be something you miss. I mean, it's barely been a couple of months for me and damn if I don't miss pie..."

"What a surprise."

"I miss sex," he went on. "Do you?" He gave her an overly suggestive eyebrow wink.

"Why, _Dean_," she made a big show of drawling, making innocent eyes at him, "are you coming on to me?"

He puffed out his chest. "Baby, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

"I know what I _do _want," she decided suddenly. "I want a good long bath. Maybe five to six hours, hot water, some salts..."

"... and beer?" Dean finished.

"Not at the same time." She crinkled her nose.

"Shower beers, Bela." He looked at her earnestly. "Or bath beers, whatever. Either way, you don't know what you're missing."

"I think I'll keep it that way," she said lightly, giving him a sideways glance while he watched ahead of them. He really didn't seem very demonic to her. He just seemed like... well, _Dean_, whatever that meant. It was so easy to forget the things he'd done, but then of course she wondered if they even mattered. After all, she'd made some awful choices in her life too. Sometimes one choice is all it takes to set you on the highway to Hell.

Bela, at the moment, was simply trying to get used to the feeling of (relative) freedom. After five hundred years, she felt very depersonalised as she gazed over the barren plains of Hell with renewed hope in her heart. It wasn't just that physical freedom, though. It was strange having no secrets left to keep, no ugly lead weights making every step difficult anymore. She had nothing left to hide and no burdens left to prop up on her shoulders. It had definitely been hardest to carry the burdens of secrets around Dean, seeing as he was the only one who she _knew _really could help her.

She was just about to shoot Dean another cursory look, perhaps try to guess what was on his mind, when she found herself frozen stock-still. There was no noise, no movement, but just like that, her limbs went rigid and she all but keeled over on the floor right there and then.

Dean was only a couple of metres past when he realised she wasn't next to him, and turned around wondering briefly - wildly - if she'd fled. When he saw her, though, he knew something was wrong from the poorly-hidden panic on her face. A wave of foreboding passed over him as he saw her begin to struggle to breathe.

There appeared to be nothing physically holding her in place, so he chalked it up right away to a demon. He heard a throat clearing itself noisily behind him and whipped around to see Annie, the 'medic'.

"What are you doing, Dean?" The man asked mildly, with a lack of a questioning lilt that suggested he knew very well what Dean was doing and was issuing an open challenge.

"Takin' a walk," Dean nodded. "What's it look like?"

Black eyes flitted from Bela to Dean. "The term 'prison break' springs to mind."

"Alright," Dean conceded with a shifty grin. "You got me. Call Crowley for me, would ya? I kinda need to have a word with him."

"Already on his way," the medic answered. "But Dean, do you want to know something?"

Dean faked a yawn. "Not really."

"It's good advice," Annie urged. "You should respect your elders, Dean. You could learn a thing or two from a real demon." Then he spat on the ground next to him, and it sizzled. "Crowley? If you ask me, he's pathetic. You know, Papa Lucy would be rather angry if he realised what took over Hell in his stead. I mean, he's a crossroads demon." He let out a high-pitched giggle. "Dean, you want Abby over here out, right? Oh, I know. But you also don't wanna become a d-word." Heavy mockery drenched his words, making it no secret how amusing he found the whole situation._  
_

"Shut up," Dean said, deciding he'd had enough. "Let her go."

"See, Dean, I think you could do a much better job than Crowley. I think you have potential. You know, I was Alastair's pupil too, once." He looked down at his wrinkled hands, wiggling his fingers momentarily in a way that made Dean almost certain something was about to go down. "I just think you need a little _motivation_."

It happened so fast Bela wasn't even sure she'd caught it. Her throat constricted tight enough for her to let out a short gasp, and now the intense constricting sensation had descended to her torso as well. In the space of two seconds she found herself in excruciating pain, causing a single tear to trickle involuntarily down her cheek. Then it stopped, as quickly as it had begun. Dean was gripping his blade, and Bela noticed with a jolt that his eyes were a deeper black than she had ever seen them.

There was Annie, behind him. His expression was slightly shell-shocked, seemingly surprised at the intensity of the turn of events. Maybe he hadn't expected this drastic of a reaction. Maybe he'd underestimated the blade; who knew? All of these details were secondary to the fact that there was a rather large slit in his neck.

Time stood still for a second. She wondered if Dean was going to go into some sort of killing frenzy - the set of his shoulders certainly suggested something of the sort... perhaps it would be a good idea to run away now?

Then he turned to her and it was worse, because he had this chillingly Dean-esque smile on his face, even though she was certain this here wasn't Dean. "Hey Bela," he called. "Ever wonder what happens when you kill a demon in Hell?"

She tried to look nonchalant as a shrill buzzing began to fill the air. The corpse, rather than collapsing on the ground, seemed to be dissolving into tiny black flies. Bela had never really been fond of insects and now was no exception.

It would have been nice if that were the end of all the ridiculous drama that had been culminating lately (really, she felt like she was in a play) but as luck would have it, Crowley chose this opportune moment to enter from downstage. Goodness, what were her lines again?

"What a mess!" the King of Hell exclaimed after brushing down his suit, his reaction more one of exasperation than anything.

Dean turned from admiring the flies and gave Crowley a nod of acknowledgement.

"I mean, I won't miss him," Crowley added as an afterthought, before raising his voice. "But Dean... weren't you supposed to be suppressing your _bloody _urges?!"

"Change of plan." Dean's voice was smooth. He jerked a thumb at Bela. "She's getting out."

"Is she now."

As both turned their gazes on her, Bela threw up her hands. "No comment."

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Explain."

The jet-black shade of Dean's eyes began to lighten as he spoke. "Well, actually, I thought this would be more of a bonus. Our deal is still on, Crowley; nobody wants this... demon crap. But she gets out, and that's not negotiable."

"Hm," came the reply. "Well, at risk of being entirely honest, it's not really a big deal."

Dean had been expecting a fight, but now his grip loosened on the blade and the mark on his arm ceased to glow. The sad thing was that he was rather disappointed. There was definitely something to be said about the sheer power he possessed. If he wanted something, he sure as hell could get it, and he had a feeling it would be a lot more satisfying after a fight rather than another infernal contract.

A dismissive glance at Bela, and Crowley continued. "Do put away the pointy stick. See, her role was, unfortunately enough, completed, so in terms of pure monetary value, we're not talking much here. It's weird, by the way, that this is what you're demanding from me with that smouldering look of yours. Did you know that her destiny was already in Lilith's hands by the time she was born? Demon deals actually don't normally apply to under-eighteens..."

Bela pressed her lips together tightly. The bizarre experience of having her life dissected before her was quickly becoming tiresome.

".., but Lilith did a little hocus pocus and died in order to bend that rule for the purposes of the Apocalypse. Sure, she died like fourteen years later... but my point till stands."

"I don't care," Dean cut in. It helped, because it prevented Bela from dwelling further on the notion that her whole life was merely a series of deliberated tragedies (which just gave a whole new meaning to the word destiny). "She's still getting out."

"Tell you what, Dean, I'll straighten it all out for you. I need reassurance that you will in fact regain your humanity, and you want the woman. So I propose two weeks. She gets out for two weeks and you have two weeks to either regain your humanity or..." and he shrugged, "render yourself powerless somehow. If you don't, then she comes back down."

Dean folded his arms. It was, again, a win-win situation. Still... "and how do I know you won't just drag her back down anyway?"

At that, Crowley sighed. "Let's see... because I have no use for her? Oh, and because I don't wish to have a Winchester Revenge squad sniffing at my heels?"

Bela gave a thoroughly inappropriate snort.

After all, there was nothing funny about watching the handshake that sealed the deal.

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**black flies = power of five series. anyone a fan?**

**oh, and i gave each chapter a real name now**


	8. Aeroplane

**back! I graduated. Sorry for the delay.**

**Finale in the next chapter or two. I've re-read this story and tbh some of the really early chapters were kind of melodramatic, it's nice to actually be able to write about the Bela/Dean dynamic in a more normal situation (like this chapter), like in the Bela/Dean fics you usually read. The hell thing was kind of a big plot device to get Bela into the modern season, rather than season 4 like most people do. I haven't actually seen season 10 yet, but when I watch it I might decide to write another, more up-to-date fic. Definitely not done writing Bela/Dean and I am a big fan of keeping things up-to-date, difficult as it can be.**

**At the end of this fic I'll give some more information on whether I want to do epilogues/ etc.**

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Thankfully, Bela didn't have to emerge from a grave in her ascent from Hell. When Castiel dragged her out, she woke up on a quiet road amidst the gloom of a cold evening. She was a little surprised to find herself clad in what she'd been wearing the night she'd died, excluding the rips and tears that the hellhounds had created. That had been such a long time ago.

Dean, who had appeared beside her, eyed the leather jacket and expensive necklace and told her that he honestly preferred her without clothes.

"Oh, but I'm so _cold_," she drawled at him in response, hugging herself dramatically. "Won't you give me your jacket again?"

It actually took him a moment to realise she was mocking his chick-flick moment of weakness on that first night (seriously, what had he been thinking?). Duly embarrassed, he conceded a loss on banter battle #483, scowled and led her across the unkempt tarmac. Abandoned houses surrounded them as, true to its nature, the Men of Letters bunker was very much 'out of the way'. Tendrils of ivy were everywhere to be seen and even the entrance to the bunker itself was a crumbling husk of what it had once been.

"Blends in perfectly with the architectural theme," Bela remarked, but her sarcasm did little to hide her obvious interest. In her line of work, this was a jackpot. An antique building meant antiques were sure to be found within.

Once they'd descended the steps, Dean took her aside. "OK, so there's no way we're going in together. Sam'll have a heart attack."

She folded her arms, acting affronted, although she really didn't care all that much, seeing as she was still getting accustomed to more important things like breathing in real, cool air. "I'll just wait out here then?"

"Great!" Dean grinned. "Just ...uh, hide while he gets used to me." He was smiling, but she noted the worry in his voice. Obviously he had no idea how Sam would react and there was no telling how horribly wrong this could potentially go. So, to reassure him, she slipped back up the stairs and into the front yard of the house beside the bunker, from where she could still hear whatever was going on.

The instant she was gone, Dean's confident smile vanished and he turned around to face the bunker entrance. Of all the things he'd faced in his life, facing his own brother would always remain the most difficult. The demon transformation had created a rift between them that should never have been there.

There was no way Dean was getting in without Sam letting him in, so he had little option but to use the brass knocker. The noise it made on the reinforced door was barely audible but he knew the sound was a lot louder inside the house - a phenomenon he'd never quite got Sam to explain to him.

There was always the question whether Sam was actually in or not, but he knew that at this time of the evening, his brother was almost always inside, doing research (probably on demon cures).

Soon enough, he heard the four heavy bolts on the inside door click back. The Men of Letters never used locks, only bolts, because the latter couldn't be picked in any way. Sam and Dean, being the housebreakers that they were, knew and appreciated this. The craft of the lockbreaker could all too easily be rendered useless.

_Here goes nothin'_, he muttered to himself as the door finally swung open.

"Sammy!" Dean grinned and extended his arms in a broad bro-hug, as if he'd just come back from a week-long holiday at some tropical resort. He attempted to walk forward but found an invisible wall in his way that seemed to repel him entirely.

Sam's eyes widened and his jaw set until his mouth was a smooth, straight line. His hair was as long as ever, and rather messy. "Dean."

Dean glanced down to see a doormat separating the two of them. Well, that explained the invisible barrier. "Nice," he commented, and he meant it, because that had been one of the first things he'd been taught and proceeded to teach Sam about battling demons. The salt-under-the-doormat trick was one of John's personal favourites (he'd always made a game of it back when they were young - Sam had loved the silliness of pouring salt under a doormat). "You mind gettin' rid of that for a sec though?"

Sam blinked. "Yeah- uh, sure." He shifted the doormat and blurred the line of salt with his foot, sweeping the grains to the side with a little difficulty as _removing _the line of salt wasn't exactly something he was accustomed to doing. He stepped back as Dean trudged into the bunker.

Dean eyed the furniture as they walked into the warroom. The creased map was still there, spread out on the table, flat under a couple of plates with crumbs on them. Nothing was particularly strange or different. To be honest, he didn't feel like a demonic intruder at all, and it was more of a casual homecoming than anything._  
_

That is, until Sam spoke up, the familiar brisk note in his voice that bled urgency. "Okay, right, so I have a devil's trap in the basement. I have the incantation in the library," he made a brief gesture behind him, "although I think I remember it anyway, and all I really need now is some purified blood. I can just ask C-"

Dean watched his brother babble with a blank look. "Dude. Slow down. What are you talking about?"

"The demon curing ritual," Sam replied impatiently. "You know, the Men of Letters one. I knew we would have to do it eventually so I have almost everything prepared."

"Ah."

"Ah?" Sam gave him an earnest look. "Dean, you're still a demon."

"What, really?" Dean replied dryly. "I know, Sammy. But we kind of have another issue to deal with at the moment-"

Sam snorted. "Another issue?!" He shook his head incredulously. "Dean, what could _possibly _be going on that is a bigger issue than this right now?"

This _would_ have been the opportune moment for Bela to waltz in, because Dean was not really looking forward to having to explain the whole thing from scratch. Of course, he had no such luck. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if she'd just ran off or something.

There was an awkward pause as he struggled to think of a way to explain this that Sam might actually believe. "I ... uh, well... what has Cas told you so far?" He figured that was a good place to start. _  
_

"You became a demon," Sam recited with a slight flinch as if he had yet to get used to the blunt irony of it all himself, "and Crowley took you down to Hell for a while to try and stop it. But," and he jabbed a thumb at the pile of salt lying at the doorway, "obviously that didn't work. So we'll just have to do it the other way." There was no question about whether Dean _wanted _to be cured or not, because of course, he did, didn't he? His brother was no demon; even with black eyes and a mysterious aversion to salt, he was still _Dean -_ pie lover, demon _hunter_.

Dean sighed. Cas sucked at explaining things, what else was new?

He was about to elaborate when guess who decided to poke her head around the doorway? Rather catlike, as well, with the remnants of a mischievous expression on her face that was gone almost as soon as it came.

Dean nodded at her, and she tentatively came through. Sam saw Dean's focus shift, followed his gaze and voila! None other than Bela Talbot. "You left the door open."

If he was surprised before, he was utterly perplexed now. His eyes damn near bulged out of his sockets. "What the..."

"Evening, Sam," Bela said lightly, and lounged over to one of the chairs beside the table. She leaned back on it. then shot Dean an urgent look that said _hurry up and explain_.

Dean couldn't suppress a smile at the expression on Sam's face as he turned to him for an answer. For a moment, he was sorely tempted to plaster the same shock on his own face and act like he was just as surprised to see her. His grin broadened at the thought. Bela noticed this and gave him a glare that told him she knew _exactly _what he was considering and he had _better not_.

"So..." Dean drawled. "Uh, I ran into her down under." He shrugged.

"...and?"

"And I thought she might want out." He gave her a lofty grin which she didn't return, because honestly, why couldn't he _ever _take things seriously?

Sam stared. "Right. Of course." He noticed (with adequate alarm) how they kept exchanging looks.

Then, "and you happened to forget that she made a demon deal to kill her parents and stole the Colt for us and then gave it to Lilith..."

Bela's eyes flashed for a second, but she controlled her composure. This was her reputation anyway. What was the big deal? She'd spent years building it up.

Dean noticed though, and gave Sam a slight warning look.

Sam returned the look with a questioning head-tilt of his own, but caught on quickly, recognising the serious nature of Dean's expression. It said, _later._ Wordless exchanges were priceless in the Winchester world, where a macho, laconic stature made the difficulties of the life just that much easier to bear.

So Sam swallowed his curiosity with a professionalism that spoke of years of experience, and moved on. He threw his hands up. "You know what, I probably don't even want to know. Let's just do the ritual already."

Dean's attitude rapidly turned dismissive. Irritable, even, Bela noted from her perch aside him. She wondered just how much demonic influence Dean pretended to be able to suppress. "Quit harping on about it, man. We'll do it, alright?"

Sam, for his part, couldn't understand how this matter had come to be a low priority for his brother. Scarily, it was almost as if Dean had got used to being a demon. For some reason Dean had dragged Bela out of hell as well and seemed to have placed her fairly high on the priority ladder. Sure, Dean had a weakness for pretty women, but Sam was certain that in this case, Dean's 'damsel in distress' syndrome didn't apply. No, there was something amiss here, something Sam had no idea about. Dean wasn't one to often keep secrets, but when he did, they were always frustratingly important pieces to the overall puzzle.

"Man, I am starving," Dean muttered at length. He had a knack for breaking silences. In fact, he had a knack for breaking things in general. Nevertheless, the dynamic changed swiftly from stalemate to a casual mood.

"I got some leftover fries in the fridge," Sam shrugged. "I can heat them up if you want."

Dean tutted. "Sammy, what did I tell you about leftover fries? You gotta finish 'em off fresh, while they're still crispy. That's just common sense."

Sam found himself grinning. "You'll still eat them, though."

"Of course."

_He's still Dean, _Sam thought to himself as he went to the fridge. _And he's back. _As he retrieved the fries, he paused and then pulled out a couple of beers from the side of the fridge too with a small smile. He wondered if he should get anything for Bela, but he doubted she would be one for stale fries and cheap beer. He did have tea, but he wasn't sure if she was in much of a drinking mood anyway. He recalled how he had felt upon being pulled out of the cage. Eating or drinking certainly hadn't been on his priority list.

Back in the war-room, Bela was examining some of the artifacts with an incredulous expression on her face. "Some of the stuff you have here, Dean..." She pointed to a tomahawk hanging on the wall.

"What, that thing?" Dean chuckled. "Sometimes I like to throw it at pictures of Crowley."

She shook her head. "That isn't some ordinary hatchet. That was one of the weapons used in the skirmish between Croatoan natives and the lost colony of Roanoke..."

"Fascinating."

"Well, it _is _if you consider how much it's worth."

Dean folded his arms. "It's probably cursed. Wouldn't touch it if I were you."

She snorted. "I know better than _that._"

"Yeah, so it's not for sale. Besides, did you say Croatoan? Because I've had experiences with that word that I'd rather not go through again..."

Bela rolled her eyes at how Dean's expression lit up when Sam arrived with the fries and beer. She herself was pretty hungry, but definitely not hungry enough for days-old grease on a plate. The beer, maybe. She sat down anyway and busied herself in examining the map that adorned the table. This whole bunker mystified her. It was like a preservation of antiquity and history. If she'd come across this back before Hell... well, let's just say her light-fingered qualities would have been thoroughly exploited.

Her thoughts were cut off by Dean's yell of surprise as he bit into the first fry.

"Son of a _bitch_, that burns," he growled, hurriedly spitting the morsel out of his mouth and across the table opposite him, right into Bela's face as it turned out. She blinked and watched as it slid off her jacket and onto the floor, a little shell-shocked.

"Whoops," Dean grinned, then went back to grimacing. "Man, what is in these? Poison?"

He touched another fry to his tongue and nearly dropped it in another bout of shock. It didn't just taste weird, but it literally seared his mouth, leaving a throbbing afterburn that he suspected would remain for a while.

Sam gave his brother a puzzled look. "They're just fries, man."

"Did you add anything to 'em? Like vinegar? You know I don't do vinegar."

His brother scratched his head. "Well, they're ... _oh_, crap."

"What? We don't even _have_ any vinegar, dude."

"No, that's not it." Sam shook his head. "They've been sitting out for a while now and they were salted. The salt must have soaked through or something." He shifted uncomfortably. Everything had been going fairly well, but now he was reminded that physically, Dean still maintained some demonic characteristics, and if he maintained the physical characteristics... he might well maintain some of the _others_...

He distracted himself with a long sip of beer. They had to do the ritual soon. They _had _to.

Dean looked down at the plate in open dismay. "This means I can't eat fries anymore?"

Bela took revenge for the spattering by reaching over and grabbing a handful out of his plate just to spite him. "Oh dear." Perhaps a more empathetic woman would have relented at the utterly dejected expression on his face, but empathetic she was not, so she gave him a radiant smile through a mouthful of greasy potato.

He scowled and reached for his beer. "Whatever," he muttered, playing it off. He poised himself to take a long sip from the bottle, but very nearly dropped it when the first drop burned his throat.

"What the..." was all he managed to croak as he slammed the beer back on the table and gave it the evil eye.

Sam sighed.

"What, so we put salt in the beer now, Sammy?!"

Sam's palm found his face when he remembered. "The beer has holy water in it." Dean was going to be _so _cranky. No beer and no food? This was quite literally one of Dean's worst nightmares.

"Right." Dean shook his head. Then without hesitation, he got up and headed towards the door.

Bela frowned. "Where are you going?" Not that she cared, but she wasn't sure she was quite ready to be left alone with the myriad of questions that were sure to come from Sam. Naturally, she could conjure up a string of lies, but for once, she hadn't the energy. Where had lying got her after all?

"Somewhere to eat," Dean replied. Then he jabbed a finger at her. "And you're coming."


	9. Storm In A Teacup

**I've edited the early chapters a LOT. It's at the point where if you're a returning reader (love you, by the way), I strongly recommend re-reading the entire fic. I like to think it's a lot more refined now. The only thing I didn't edit was the title, which I thought I'd leave the same for now, to avoid confusion.**

**The next chapter _will _be the last one, I promise. I'll talk about sequels there.**

**Be sure to leave a review! **

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Dean parked the Impala with only the slightest sigh of pleasure, patting the steering wheel. "One month away from my baby is just too much," he explained to Bela as she rolled her eyes and got out.

"Oh, yeah, I'd forgotten about your unhealthy relationship with your car," she replied.

"Ain't nothin' unhealthy about it." To punctuate his point, Dean prised a morsel of double cheeseburger from between his teeth and flicked it by her feet, snorting when she hopped out of the way. As much as she'd pretended to despise the food, when it arrived, she all but wolfed it down (to Dean's delight). Centuries in hell does wonders for the appetite!

Dean shut the door and looked around the parking lot of the motel they'd arrived at, which was fairly empty. "This better not be an expensive joint, you know. I said I'd pay, but-"

"It's probably filthy," Bela admitted morosely as they entered the building, taking no heed of the fact that the receptionist could probably hear every word she was saying. "Motels like this always are."

Thankfully, the spotty teen at the desk didn't seem to care what they thought of the place. Probably just a student trying to earn a living.

Dean gave him a thumbs-up and resisted the urge to call him 'kid', because that probably wouldn't help in jacking down any expensive prices. "One room, please." He even said please! Well... mostly, he just felt obliged to make up for whatever Bela was probably about to put the guy through.

The youth looked up. "OK," he muttered, flicking his gaze between the two of them and raising an eyebrow. "King-sized bed?" He tried to wink. Really tried. It was probably the most excitement the poor kid had had in weeks.

Dean turned to give Bela a cheeky grin, but instead watched her face screw up into one of the most horrified expressions he'd seen on her. The student's eyes widened; he knew he'd said something wrong.

"He's my _brother_," Bela exclaimed in a convincing American accent, sounding so appalled that Dean almost believed her. His grin vanished at the look she gave him, which said, _play along_.

He shrugged, then eyed the teenager and tried to look indignant. "Yeah, man, what's that about?"

The receptionist blanched quite visibly. "_Shit_," he muttered, "I'm sorry, you know, I'm just hella tired right now and I don't really even know what I'm saying, like-"

Bela interrupted him. "Do you have a manager I could speak to? Because _honestly_... I'm not very impressed by the service right now."

Dean scowled. Why did she have to drag things like this out for no apparent reason?

The youth took the scowl as directed at him, and panicked even more. "Shit, no, you don't need to talk t- I mean, my manager isn't here at the moment." He looked at them nervously and then continued in a low voice. "Look, can we just forget I said that? Don't like, flip out or anything. I can't lose this job, or I am _screwed_._"_

Bela pretended to ponder this.

"I'll throw in a free breakfast." The teen was thinking quickly. "And, uh, you can take anything you want from the minibar. Just... don't _complain_, alright?"

"Alright, buddy," Dean muttered quickly, before Bela could start to list off any other demands. "Free drinks and breakfast, and we don't tell anyone." He pulled out his wallet and paid for the room, not failing to notice the smugness radiating from Bela's demeanour.

He picked up the key, nodded slightly apologetically at the receptionist and steered Bela over to the stairs.

She responded with a _let's go, darling_ while they were still in earshot of the teen.

Dean shook his head as they climbed the stairs. "See, Bela, _this_ is why you have so many enemies."

"What?" She tossed her head innocently. "Just a little harmless, profitable fun."

"Never mind," he sighed, rubbing his cheek. "Just... _try _and stay out of trouble."

Bela took the key as they approached her room. "Absolutely," she promised with the least sarcasm she could possibly limit herself to.

Of course, she'd been right, The place _was _filthy. The ragged pillows showed no sign of ever having been near a pillowcase, the fat TV opposite the bed looked at least ten years old and she counted three - no, _four_ cracks in the wall. What if the ceiling decided to collapse while she was asleep? Would she go back to hell or could she stay on Earth and haunt the Winchesters?

On that bizarre note, she turned to Dean, who matched her grimace with a smile of his own.

"This is five-star for you two, isn't it?" She grumbled.

"If there's no cockroaches, I'm happy."

"I hope you're joking." Bela moved to sit on the bed, paused, eyeing the blatant tears in the bedspread, then sighed and sat down anyway. Rather than a duvet, there was simply a thin blanket scrunched up at the foot of the bed. She resolved to try and get back to her old apartment as soon as possible. No doubt, her room would be gone, but she could always get another. Of course, only Bela Talbot could rise up from hell and still have living standards.

At length, she started, "I supp-" just as Dean began to say something of his own. Having both cut each other off, they stopped and fell into an awkward silence. She knew it was time for him to go, but for some reason she didn't feel like prompting him.

In the end, Dean directed her wandering gaze to the minibar and winked. "You should take advantage of the free drinks." Then he ducked out of the room and just like that, he was gone.

Bela refused to even think about sleep until she'd washed all of hell's grime off of her. She hadn't a change of clothes, but the prospect of a shower was far too tempting. Maybe she'd wrap herself in a towel and sleep. Oh god... what if the room didn't have towels? Now _that _was a cause for panic. She picked herself up and creaked across the floorboards over to the bathroom, feeling a lot less triumphant about her adamant decision to stay in a motel rather than 'bunking up' at the Men of Letters establishment.

There may have been three empty packs of cigarettes strewn across the floor (and flattened in anger, it looked like) but thankfully, she found a dry towel under the sink. What it was doing there, she neglected to worry about.

Soon, Bela's clothes were heaped in a neat pile on the floor and she was standing under what must have been the weakest shower in - well, wherever they were. She actually hadn't asked where exactly in the good old US of A the Men of Letters bunker was. She resolved to ask Dean, then remembered that he was gone. She was actually planning to make a break for New York as soon as possible, and what better time to go than in the morning? It would be a lot easier without having to tell Dean, because first of all, he'd probably try and stop her (honestly, that man was _obsessed_ with her) and second of all, he'd probably succeed, because being alone after her stint in hell was already taking its toll on her and not only was she emotionally drained, but she'd probably do something extremely stupid if she went alone all the way to her old apartment.

Thankfully, the extent of hell's permanence seemed to be mental. Looking down at herself, somehow, she had retained no physical scars from the five hundred years of torture and it wasn't even that they had faded. Her body appeared to have been completely remoulded in the exact same state it had been on her last day on Earth. Perhaps the grime of hell was more metaphorical than she'd initially thought.

And then... what did one do on their first night after hell? Given her occupation, Bela was no stickler for routine, but nevertheless her eyes and attention kept snapping to the points of the pair of scissors on the sink. God, she was a wreck.

The hot water had been gone for a while now, and she suddenly noticed that her skin was beginning to turn blue from the cold. Hurriedly, she sprang out of the way of the showerhead and turned it off. She felt like she was back in her cell, nerve-endings so destroyed from a lengthy bout of torture that she couldn't even feel the heat of boiling tar poured onto her back.

When she wrapped the towel around herself and was still shivering, she began to realise just how bad of a shape she was in.

That's when the banging on the door started.

* * *

Dean took his time lounging back down the stairs to the lobby. He kept his mind occupied with thoughts of the demon curing ritual, Sam and whether Crowley would really honour the deal they'd struck or not. He was not, of course, thinking about Bela.

"She'll be fine," he assured the kid behind the counter that they'd duped.

Okay, he was a little bit worried. Not worried like he was leaving a child alone, but worried when he thought back to how he'd felt immediately following his own stint in hell. Of course, he'd dealt with it in traditional Winchester Style™ by deliberately avoiding discussing or thinking about it at all. Bela would probably be doing the same, but he doubted she had as much practice as he did!

The fact of the matter was, it wasn't a good idea to be left alone on your first night after hell. No matter how strong you thought you were, the magnetic pull of insanity was strongest then and if Dean hadn't gone straight to Bobby's to find Sam on his own first night, he probably would have succumbed. Company was the only thing that really kept you grounded when you were that delirious. And Dean was _excellent_ company...

...then again, he seemed to be spending an awful lot of time around Bela lately. He was pretty sure the debt was repaid when he got her out, and yet, he hadn't let her out of his sight since the ascent. He decided that it might be a good idea to just check on her in the morning, then they could - _should_ \- go their separate ways. No doubt she had a life to get back to, and he had his own endless list of responsibilities anyway. With a sigh, he trudged up to the Impala, trying his very hardest to ultimately shake that feeling of worry that kept building up inside of him. This was Bela, for heaven's sake. Why was he even worried?

He turned the key and if the engine had started, that probably would have been that. As it was, his beloved Impala choked and spluttered a couple of times and refused to start. Normally this would have had him worried sick for his baby and immediately on the job of fixing whatever had gone wrong. As it was, he instead gave in to the _other _worry and after a minute or two of sitting around, he was out of the car and walking back to the motel with a much more surefooted stride than he'd had on the way out.

* * *

Bela hadn't heard Dean's initial knocking over the sound of the water, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when, after turning off the shower, the worried bangs started echoed through to the bathroom.

"Hellhounds at my door again," she whispered to herself in panic, logic having abandoned her at a most impressive speed. Then she leaned out of the shower stall and promptly vomited onto the floor.

Another set of bangs brought her staggering over to the toilet at least, where she continued to retch until she heard a voice amongst the din ringing in her ears. And of course, it was Dean.

It didn't make her feel any better, but it brought her back to reality, exactly what she needed. No, there were no hellhounds at her door, just one very concerned half-demon. It was so absurd that she managed to stand up straight and stumble out of the bathroom.

"Hey, Bela! If you don't let me in I'm kicking this door down, you hear me?"

Alarmed, she made to go over and open it, and nearly slipped in the puddle of water that she'd created on the floor. Dean stopped banging while she went to fetch the towel and drape it around herself, and she hoped dearly that he wasn't about to cause any serious property damage. There was an angry yell from across the hall when she finally got to the door and she opened it just in time to see Dean yell right back, "Well screw you too, lady!"

He turned and gave a double take at the sight of her. Her hair hung down in soaking clumps, her expression was likely none too calm and there was definitely some vomit around her mouth.

"The heck happened to you?" Was the first (and dare she say, insensitive) thing that came out of his mouth. Nevertheless, she could tell he was worried by the way he pushed past her and peered into the room.

Maybe it was something to do with how embarrassed she was at how dreadful the first thirty minutes of her 'I'm totally okay on my own' night had gone, along with still somewhat being in a state of terror, but Bela found herself choking up and pathetically unable to respond. She could only stand back and watch him take in the wonderful sights that were in store for him.

He sniffed the air and eyed the vomit in the bathroom through the open door. "There goes dinner, I guess..."

She tried to snort at this remark. It's what she would have normally done. The exertion of vomiting had brought tears to her eyes, and that, coupled with the emotion that she desperately fought to keep stashed inside her, resulted in the wild extortion of what she'd meant to be a haughty snort into a frightened sob.

And there was no taking that back. Dean was off like a gun, guiding her to lie down on the bed, despite her protests that it was _too_ filthy. She was asking him to shut the door before somebody saw them, but he was going on about first nights after hell and how he knew this would happen and she saw that it was already shut. She lay face down, burying her face into the pillow she'd scoffed at earlier and shrouding herself in the blanket so she could feel a little less exposed. Vaguely, she could hear him begin to clean up the mess in the bathroom and mop up the floor (mainly because of his energetic cursing), and he even popped out and back in with some towels. Clearly he thought it impolite to ask her to relinquish hers! Maybe there was a gentleman in him after all.

After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally done being busy, even though realistically it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. She'd calmed down by now and with Dean back to good ol' wisecracking, she found her panic attack becoming more distant by the second.

"I'm afraid your clothes are gone," he informed her. "I had to use them to mop up most of the puke, and even I would be disgusted if you told me you wanted to wear them again, so I threw 'em out."

Bela was sitting up by now, and was sipping something free and alcoholic from the minibar. She'd cleaned up a bit - rinsed away all the vomit and combed her hair so it didn't look too awful. "Whatever, they would've been bad memories anyway."

"Yeah. I'll buy you something to wear in the morning."

She gave him a threatening look. "If I see a miniskirt, I'm _going _to kill you."

Visibly relaxed now, Dean smirked. "I happen to have a thing for pencil skirts myself." They were deliberately avoiding the question of what she had just gone through, mainly because ... what was there to even discuss? Bela couldn't lie about it, seeing as Dean had been through the same before. Why tell him what he could already guess?

Also... "You can stop ogling me, by the way, Winchester." She drew the towel tighter around herself in defiance.

He gave her another of his eyebrow winks, then grew serious. "I was thinking..."

He motioned to her exposed shoulders.

"You notice anything different about yourself? Any marks?"

"It's funny you should mention that," Bela responded. "I'm pretty sure I don't have a scar left on my body. Can't say I'm upset about it though."

Dean, who had been sitting at the bed next to her, swung his legs fully over and sat back, leaning against the wall. She didn't protest. The bed was small and they were close enough to touch now.

He slipped the neck of his shirt down a little, past his anti-possession tattoo and over to reveal an almost completely faded welt on his shoulder. She was taken aback to see how it was shaped like a hand. "I got this on my way out."

"Sounds like use of excessive force to me," she observed. "I guess your pal Cas just likes me more."

"Or he just knows you're damaged enough as it is," Dean quipped.

"Touché."

A minute passed like that, both of them silently contemplating hell.

Finally, Bela could no longer avoid asking the question. "Dean, what are you doing here?"

He didn't have to turn to know that she was staring right at him, unwavering and challenging in her gaze.

There would be no more lies tonight. "I was worried about you."

She nodded.

My turn, Dean thought to himself. He met her gaze. "So what happened? How are you really feeling?"

She offered him a weak smile. "Hell happened. What else? I think those five hundred years have finally caught up with me, Dean. I'm going off my rocker."

"It's just the first night, Bela. It's tough, but it ain't permanent. I mean, I was the same when I got out, and look at me now!" He beamed.

"Oh yes, the epitome of perfect mental health," she jibed. But her heart wasn't in it - there was too much fear and not enough sarcasm in her voice. "I'm scared, Dean. More than I was in hell. I've got something to lose now."

He had leaned in so close by now that she found herself whispering the last word, heart thumping faster than she'd ever felt it.

"Maybe you just need some help relaxing." And he was about to kiss her, but he felt her smiling against his lips and paused when it turned into a light chuckle.

"What?" He drew back a little.

She shook her head. "Dean... that was one of the cheesiest lines I've _ever _heard."

His face actually fell slightly. "I know. Yeah, it sucked."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, really..." She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back in. "But I'm just as much to blame, because it worked."

And that, as they say, was that.


	10. Walkabout

It was almost 11 a.m by the time Dean returned to the bunker. Sam was, as usual, in the library, poring over more demon ritual research. Dean had given him a heads-up last night - _met some chick at a bar, be home in the morning - _so he wasn't particularly surprised when Dean showed up late in the war-room, one hand weighted down with a case of untainted beer and the other clutching at a supermarket bag. Above all, he looked very pleased with himself.

"Hey," Sam nodded at him, shooting the bag a confused look (Dean never went shopping unless he really needed to). "You look... really happy."

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm topside, got a crate of beer and more bacon and pie than you would believe right here." He winked. "Still hitting the books? Sammy, you need to get laid."

Sam shrugged, closing the dusty tome. "Maybe you're right. What's the good news, anyway?"

"Dude. Two girls in one night. That's what I'm talkin' about." With a heave, Dean set the oversized crate of beer down on the table and whistled. "By the way, it's time I took a good look at the Impala. She almost died on me last night."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You said it was one chick."

"I did? Huh," Dean grinned. "Maybe I was just seeing double."

Sam just shook his head and got up, reaching up high to slot the book back into place (in a spot so high only he could reach it). "Whatever. What did you do with Bela anyway? Has she gone back to Queens yet?"

"Nah," Dean chortled. "She's at a motel."

Maybe it was something about the way he was just aimlessly standing there, grinning like an idiot, but Sam began to eye him suspiciously. "Did you steal her wallet or something? I mean, dude, you're so smug it's actually scaring me."

Dean just gave him an eyebrow wink.

"Oh." Realisation struck and Sam screwed up his face. "Oh my god. Bela's the chick, isn't she?"

"What? No..."

"Right. Sure. Dean, please tell me you used protection."

"Okay, you got me." Dean's tone didn't seem very caught out at all. Not that Sam was surprised. Dean and Bela had a sexual tension so disturbingly intense that ever since they'd met her, Sam had taken to avoiding the two together if he could help it, although that also had something to do how much they seemed to love trading insults. Overall, it was just an uncomfortable experience for a bystander.

"And as for protection..." Dean pulled out his wallet pointedly. "I don't keep five condoms in here for nothin'."

"See, now that's one of the things you _don't _tell your baby brother." Sam shook his head slowly. "Never mind. So what, are you two a _thing_ now?"

"What?"

"You and Bela."

Dean guffawed. "This isn't a chick flick, Sammy. I'm not _you_. I was just looking after her. It was her first night out of hell, and you remember how I was on mine... I figured a bit of fun might make her feel better and keep everything else off her mind."

Sam frowned. "I'm still out of the loop on all of this, by the way. Last I remember, she got you killed and now you just drag her out of the pit? You two seem on pretty good terms, but if you want me to be able to trust her, I'm gonna need some answers."

Truth be told, he had no idea what to make of Bela now. From what he knew of her, she'd sell the two of them for a couple of grand without blinking if it came to it. Yet... Dean was acting as if she was just an old friend. Sam knew Dean had met her a couple of times without him, and he remembered how Dean had seemed to actually enjoy himself at the ball while on the ghost ship case... still, surely that had all gone sour? Dean had always been the one to deal with Bela, always the one to call her or receive her calls, and ultimately the one who made the decision to let her die. Could that be what this was about?

"Let's get one thing straight," Dean said quickly, looking a little irritated. "She didn't '_get me killed_'. The only person that got me killed was me. Not her, not you. Maybe Lilith, a little bit."

Sam grimaced at the uncomfortable memories. They'd come so far.

"And I can't really give you any answers, 'cause they ain't mine to give. But I'm telling you that she's staying out of hell and as far as I'm concerned, she's good now."

"She's 'good'?" Sam echoed dubiously.

"Yeah. Well," Dean snorted, "she's still _Bela_. She'd get on my nerves if she stuck around."

Sam gave his brother a searching look. "You know, all things considered, you don't really seem like you'd mind that very much."

There was something about the looks they were giving each other yesterday. Even when they weren't talking to each other, they were constantly communicating in some shape or form. Not to mention the constant banter. As much as they traded insults, it was like they couldn't stay away from each other. The only guess Sam had was that they went through some kind of experience in hell together.

Predictably, Dean scoffed at that. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... forgetting about all these 'answers' that you say you won't tell me... if I didn't know you any better, Dean, I'd say you were just getting attached to her."

* * *

Bela pulled on a thin sweater over the checkered button-up blouse that Dean had left for her, toying with the pockets on the jeans. He'd removed all the labels and ditched the bags they had come in, so she had know way of knowing where he'd got the clothes, but as she slipped on her necklace and gave herself a once-over in the mirror, she admitted that he'd fared far better than she'd expected. Looks like he hadn't been lying about living with a woman for a year.

She scowled for a second, not liking the idea of being Dean's dress-up doll one little bit.

Then again, he'd been fairly ... for lack of a better word, _chivalrous_ about the events of last night. She was the one who'd thrown up over her own clothes anyway. What's more, she shuddered to think of where she would be now if he hadn't been there for her. Hell could play cruel tricks on you, whether you were still there or not.

Then there was the sex. He was every bit as good as she'd imagined. Their bodies had moved with a synergy she hadn't thought possible. Still, to dwell on it would be foolish. She'd been there, it had happened, and that was that. As far as Bela was concerned, it was long overdue, but didn't change anything between them. They were still...

...what were they?

Enemies? Friends of sorts now, she supposed, considering how he'd dragged her out of hell and everything. But no... their relationship was far too complicated to be described that easily. It was just a huge mess of guilt, regret, worry, a long history, some care, a lot of banter, a sense of familiarity, a hefty dose of resentment and of course, sexual tension. It gave her a headache just thinking about it. No - with Dean, she didn't even know where to _begin_.

Not that it mattered. She fully intended to at least try and put all of this behind her and rebuild herself something of a life. If that meant Dean had to go, then Dean would have to go.

She did a double take upon exiting the bathroom. It was Castiel, standing on the bed. The trench-coated picture of solemnity looked so utterly ridiculous that she couldn't hold back a laugh, which only escalated as he continued to stare at her in perfect innocence. Honestly, if all angels were like this, she could get used to it (although heaven was screwed).

Castiel frowned in confusion at her mirth until she stopped cackling and gestured for him to get off the bed.

He still wasn't too sure what he'd done that was so funny, but he supposed that it made the woman laugh, so couldn't have been a bad thing. "Hello, Bela."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I believe you are in possession of Cain's blade," he replied, straight to the point. Angels and small talk didn't mix, evidently.

She snorted. "I'd be loathe to steal such a thing."

"I saw you take it."

"Okay," Bela said indignantly. "What were you doing, _watching_ us?" She shook her head. "I thought Dean was the only pervert around here."

"I don't know what that word means," Castiel muttered. "I was guarding you from demons for your first night. I saw you steal the blade in the car." At her horrified expression, he felt the need to elaborate. "I couldn't see you in your room, if that's what's bothering you."

She sighed. "Alright, well then. First of all, next time, please warn me before you watch over me. As much as I like the idea of a guardian angel, I don't think I like the idea of them just hanging around next time I- not that there's _going _to be a next time, by the way, how ever much Dean wants it. Second of all, yes, I have the bloody butter knife right here." She reached into a tear in the mattress and, after rummaging around for a few seconds, produced the nasty-looking artifact without so much as a second glance at it. "It's hideous, by the way. Tell him he can have it back."

Cas didn't seem to care for returning the blade to Dean. Instead, he seemed more intrigued by Bela herself. "Why did you take it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Why do we take anything? I'm a kleptomaniac through and through. He was showing it off and I thought I might teach him a lesson; bring the supposed knight of hell down a peg or two. All I really wanted to do was piss him off a bit, anyway." Truth was, she wasn't quite sure why she'd taken it. She just didn't like how his hand would occasionally disappear inside his jacket to stroke it. And after what she'd seen him do with it down in hell, she wasn't entirely sure she liked the idea of him holding onto it, not only for her sake but for his as well.

Castiel may have been unfamiliar with human etiquette and nature, but he had enough wisdom in him to recognise that Bela, for now, would be better off not knowing the significance of what she had just done.

The reality was that it had proven impossible to separate Dean from his blade. Whether that was the secret of the mark of Cain or not, it was still important. The bond between man and blade had become so strong that even temporarily separating the two was now out of the question. And yet Bela Talbot had snatched it from under his nose with ease. Even Castiel was unable to explain this...though he had made an educated guess.

"You've done well," he told her. "Sam and I believe that separating Dean from the blade is the first step to his humanity."

Bela snorted. "You should've just kicked him in the nuts, grabbed it and ran, but I'll take credit where it's due."

At length, she shrugged. "Anyway. I presume you want to take it?"

Cas nodded. "It would be safest with me. Or rather, with my brothers and sisters in heaven. They can find out a way to destroy it."

"Fantastic." She tossed it at him and smiled. "I think that's that, then." She gazed out of the window for a second. "I think it's high time I got out of here. Tell Dean he's been lovely, but it's time a girl got on and did her own thing, yeah? I'd tell him myself, but I'm blocking his number... or else he'll keep calling me. He's already left me two voicemails."

She realised she was rambling when she turned back and the angel had vanished. "I guess nobody tells him then."

Then she grinned at the thought of how frustrated he would get if she up and left without so much as a goodbye, and he didn't find out until she was all the way back in Queens. Bela was beginning to feel a lot more like herself by the minute. Boy, would she run a hell of a bath once she was back to living in comfort. She still had plenty of money, and making more wasn't exactly an issue.

It wasn't that she was running away from Dean. She just needed her own life back, otherwise she was going to go nuts, bunged up in motels and bunkers with talk of hell and demons and - worse - _feelings _never more than a phone call away, or a trip in the sacred Impala. Bela needed out of the world of the Winchesters.

_And I thought losing Dean would be difficult_, she thought to herself, ditching the cheap cellphone he'd bought her last night in the trash can and sauntering out of the motel room - not before calling a cab, though.

It was that simple...

* * *

**we're done. thanks for coming everyone! if you didn't leave a review but did read the story, please reconsider. I'd really like to know what you thought.**

**i have a sequel idea, that i'd really like to write (heck, it's got garth in it) and as you can see in the way this fic ends, a sequel would be the most natural progression. **

**however, if nobody is interested, i don't think i'd have the motivation to write one.**

**so i suppose what i'm saying is, i want to write a sequel, but i want to be talked into writing one... and i want people to actually read it.**

**you feel me? no? ok... enough of that.**

**this fic was sponsored by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.**

**(not really)... but I had to rename the chapters after something, didn't I?**


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